


Crystal Tears

by Emospritelet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark Castle Rumbelle, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-03-17 08:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13655022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: Fic based on a prompt list on tumblr.  Sir Maurice's men have rebelled against him, and Graham helps Belle to escape.  She finds her way to a strange castle, with an even stranger inhabitant.





	1. “Please don’t argue. You have to leave right now, you aren’t safe here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is written from prompts I received on tumblr. It's slow burn Dark Castle Rumbelle but I promise smut :)

Light flickered, a draught coming in through the library window making the candles gutter, and Belle looked up from her book with a frown.  The glass had rattled, the strength of the wind outside increasing.  She suspected that a storm was on its way; the atmosphere had been heavy and oppressive all day, and as night fell, it had only grown more menacing.  Laying her book aside, she got to her feet and went to the window.  Sure enough, snow was falling, the wind gusting fat flakes against the window pane.  She hoped that any men outside of the castle had found shelter.

Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the horizon.  There was a glow of red there, but it was not the sunset.  It came from something far more threatening, something that made her breath catch in her chest, even as she tried to be brave.  The light from a thousand ogre campfires, their unstoppable armies creeping ever closer.  Her father had sent men to the wars, in service of the Duke, but none returned.  Well, not whole and healthy, anyway.  As much as Sir Maurice tried to lift her spirits by assuring her that they would defeat the beasts in the end, she knew it was only a matter of time before that tide of rage and death swept over them.  Hence her reading.  She was sure there must be something in the vast array of books that would help them.  Magic spells, perhaps - not that she had any magical ability - or a powerful weapon.  So far her search had yielded little of use, but she had to do  _something_.

She crossed back to the desk where her book lay open.   _A Treatise on Magical Creatures and Their Use of Dark Magic_.  It was interesting, but she was barely one fifth through, and so far she had read about mermaids and dryads and found nothing that would help her people.  She sighed, closing the book with a thump.  Perhaps she was looking in the wrong place…

The library door opening with an urgent, wrenching sound made her spin around, and her eyes widened as Graham, her father’s Master of the Hunt, burst in.  He was breathing hard, his blue eyes wide with shock.

“Thank the gods!” he gasped.  “I should have known you would be in here!  Lady Belle, you have to come with me!”

He threw a bundle of clothing at her, and Belle caught it, mouth opening and closing.

“Put those on,” he ordered.  “Quickly!”

“What’s happened?” she asked.  “What is it?  Are the ogres…”

“Quickly!” he insisted.  “There’s no time to explain!  Put them on!”

Frowning at his tone, but trusting him, she ducked behind the silk screen by the fire.  The bundle of clothes contained a pair of her riding breeches, a tunic and shirt, and a short coat and knee boots.  She wriggled out of her dress, thankful that she had been wearing one of her everyday gowns that she could get in and out of by herself.  In times of war, one never knew when the maids were going to be called away to help with something more important, and she had never liked feeling helpless.

“What has happened?” she asked again, hearing Graham’s heavy breathing out beyond the screen.

“It’s - it’s the knights,” he said.  “They’ve taken over the castle.  Please hurry, my Lady!”

Belle paused in her dressing, hands on the strings of the tunic.

“The knights,” she said, her heart sinking into her belly.  “Sir Gaston?”

“Him, and his sadists and lickspittles,” said Graham, anger making him almost choke on the words.  “Are you ready?”

She tugged the boots on hurriedly, shrugging on the coat and pulling it tight.  He gave a brisk nod as she stepped out from behind the screen.

“What about Father?” she asked, and her heart turned to ice as he looked away.  

“We have to go,” he said, and she grabbed at his arm as he turned away, fear lancing through her.

“Graham, please tell me!  What did they do?”

He hesitated, his back to her.

“Sir Gaston led the others against your father,” he said.  “He and Sir Walter stood against them, but it’s hopeless - two against over a dozen!  They were fighting when I left.  Come.  We must go.”

“No no no, I have to go to him, to help him!” she babbled.

He whirled to face her, hands gripping her shoulders.

“Please don’t argue!” he said urgently.  “You have to leave, you’re not safe here!  Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Her mind tried to follow him, the shock making her brain want to shut down, but eventually she nodded.  She understood all too well.  He grasped her hand, tugging her with him, but she pulled free.

“Wait!” she insisted, and grabbed the book on the table, hesitating only a moment before she took several others.  Graham looked as though he wanted to hurl them onto the fire, but she gave him a curt nod, and he led them swiftly from the room.  She followed him without a word, her lip trembling as she heard the clash of blades and cries of pain from the Great Hall.  Graham led her to the back stairs that led to the kitchens, and just as they entered the stairwell the fighting stopped.  She halted, glancing back, but he shook his head.

“Come,” he said grimly.  “There’s nothing to be done, and they’ll be looking for you.”

She trotted down the stairs after him, fear holding back her grief.  What if her father was hurt?  What if he was dead?  She couldn’t just leave, could she?  Nonetheless, her common sense told her that a castle in which her father was no longer the lord would be a dangerous place for his only heir.  Especially as his daughter.  She put her head down, hurrying after Graham as he raced through the kitchens and out of the back door.

He led her to the stables, where she was surprised to see her horse, Philippe, already saddled, panniers strapped across his back and a cloak lying across the saddle.  Graham picked up the cloak and patted the horse’s rump.

“Clothes and food in there,” he said, gesturing to the panniers.  “It was the best I could do at short notice.  You must get away, my Lady.  Find somewhere to lay low.  I’ll come for you when it’s safe.”

“But - the storm…” faltered Belle.

She was still clutching her books to her chest, and feeling young and lost and stupid.  Graham wrapped the cloak around her, fastening the silver pin, and put his hands on her shoulders again.

“It’ll cover your tracks,” he said gently.  “They won’t be able to find you, but you know I can.  Now go!”

Swallowing hard, and feeling as though she was dreaming, Belle shoved her books into one of the panniers, and mounted Philippe.  The horse snorted and stamped, rolling his eyes at the billowing white outside the stable doors.  She glanced at Graham, and he gave her a reassuring nod.

“Get as far as you can,” he urged her.  “Stay off the roads, and head through the woods.  Stay safe, my Lady.  Stay safe, and I’ll come for you.  I promise!  Go!”

Belle dug her heels into Philippe’s sides, the horse bolting from the stable, and set off towards the looming forest at a gallop, the snow swirling around them and swallowing them up.


	2. 21: “You must be mad, coming here like this.”

Belle was tired, but she made herself keep walking.  Every step she took, she kept telling herself, every step meant that she was further away from her father’s lands, and from those that would harm her.  Her legs felt limp and heavy, but her feet no longer hurt, the deep snow having numbed them.  That worried her, the thought that frostbite might already be setting in.  The snow was thinner, here in the depths of the forest, among the trees, but still almost to her knees, and if any of the knights chased her down on horseback she would be easy prey.

The wind howled, the winter storm still no closer to blowing itself out, and she shuddered, snatching her cloak around her.  For the hundredth time she cursed Graham for telling her to make a run for it in the midst of a storm, and for the hundredth time she reminded herself that it was likely the only reason she hadn’t been found and brought back yet.  The snow would cover her tracks, as he had said, and with any luck this storm would blow for another day at least.  It certainly felt like it never wanted to end.

She felt terrible for Philippe, her horse.  He had carried her a full night and day through the endless forest before catching his foot in a rabbit hole while going downhill, breaking his leg.  Belle had wept bitterly as she used the long knife at her belt to end his torment, his blood now dried to a dark stain on her cloak.  The panniers that Graham had packed had been too heavy for her to carry, so she had buried one in the roots of an old tree in the hopes that she could go back for it at some point.  It had contained the few books she had brought with her, along with a spare change of clothes, but she had known that the food, water-skins and fire-lighting materials now stuffed in the pannier slung over her shoulder were far more essential to her survival than what she might find in the books.  She had left them behind with a heavy heart, knowing she had to get away from the horse’s body before wolves smelled the blood.

She had managed to walk another five miles or so before finding relative shelter on the lee side of a large fallen tree, and had burrowed in beneath the roots, pulling her cloak around her for warmth.  Stopping was dangerous, she knew this, but continuing without rest was impossible.  The forest seemed endless, but she knew that there had to be a settlement somewhere, and she wanted to get as far as she could from anyone that might know her, and betray her whereabouts to Sir Gaston and his men.  She had awoken with a start as dawn was greying the sky, warm and comfortable until she crawled out into the biting wind and driving snow.  There was just enough dry kindling beneath the tree roots to make a small fire, sufficient to melt snow and boil the water for a cup of tea.  Belle had sipped at it from a pewter mug, glancing around herself as she did so, nervous of staying still.  The forest was silent except for the wind in the trees, and so she had eaten the last of her bread and meat before setting off north again.

She had walked for the rest of the day, her legs growing weary, until they could barely carry her.  The food was long gone, and she was well aware that she needed to find something to eat if she was to carry on her journey.  Sourcing food in winter was difficult at the best of times, but she decided not to think about what might happen if she couldn’t find anything.  Graham had taught her which plants were safe to eat, years ago when he was a lanky boy in his late teens, and she a curious eight year old with a penchant for following him into the woods and getting dirt on her fine dresses.  She thought she could remember most of what he taught her, at least.

Periodically she glanced behind her, but there was no one else to be seen through the swirling snow.  The wind screamed at her as she stepped out from behind a large oak, the cold force of it like a knife to her cheek.  She desperately wanted to rest, but there was little shelter in amongst the trees, and she knew that if she lay down in the snow, there was a danger that she might not rise again.  She leant on the tree for a moment, catching her breath, and scanned the forest ahead of her, seeing no shelter, no end to the bare trees and iron-hard earth.

“I don’t want to die here,” she said softly, and the wind howled its derision at her.  She gritted her teeth and raised her chin, determined not to become the faint-hearted woman that Sir Gaston had wanted, and redoubled her efforts.

The land was heading uphill, and it was making her pant with exertion, the muscles in her legs screaming.  She rested her hands on her thighs as she walked up, pushing down on them, the pannier swinging from her shoulder and almost knocking her off balance.  She dreaded reaching the crest of the hill, for she knew that she would be almost clear of the trees and in the full force of the wind.  Still, she must find shelter somewhere.  She had never been so far without seeing some sort of settlement.  The forest was vast; surely it held enough game to support a small village?

Comforted by the thought, she sighed and pushed herself onward, bracing herself for the biting wind as she crested the hill.  The force of it almost knocked her backwards, and she bent her head down and leaned into it, pushing her way down the hill and casting her eyes about for any signs of life.  Instantly, she saw something that gave her hope.  What looked like a road stretched before her in a ribbon of white.  Admittedly it was not wide, possibly made only for carts or the odd carriage rather than a large procession, but a road it most surely was.  Where there was a road, there were people.  Graham had told her to stay away from roads, but surely she was far enough from the castle now.  Eagerly, new energy in her legs, she started down the hill towards it.  The snow was thinner, the wind blowing it away as soon as it fell, so it was easier to walk, and she heaved in a breath, determined to find some sort of shelter before the night fell.

Dusk was fast approaching when she realised that she had to rest.  She was walking in shuffling steps now, her body almost too exhausted to put one foot in front of the other, and when she caught her foot in a rut she pitched forward and slammed into the hard-packed snow and ice, the impact knocking the breath from her body.  For a moment she simply lay there.  It felt good to lie, to let her aching limbs lose a little of their tension, to sink into the relative softness of the snow.  Her face was so numb she barely noticed the cold.  It would be so easy to let it take her, to drift into sleep.  Darkness swirled around her, lulling her, wanting her, and her eyes sprang open, her heart thumping with fear.

“Get up, Belle!” she said sharply, her voice strangely loud in the white wilderness.  “Get up, you idiotic girl!”

Telling herself off always helped, and she pushed herself up on shaking arms, trying to rise.  She managed to get one knee underneath her, then another, and staggered to her feet, swaying dangerously as she did so.  She took a deep breath, and squinted at the path ahead of her.  The road turned a corner, but she was aware that she could not go much further.  Better to find somewhere to wait out the night.  She resolved that if she found no shelter around the bend, she would dig herself into a snowdrift and hope for the best.  It seemed to take her an age to reach the corner, the fading light playing tricks on her eyes, the snow a pale blue around her.  At last, she rounded the bend, and her mouth fell open as she saw what lay before her.

A castle sat in the mountains ahead of her, crouching like a large beast about to spring.  Turrets jabbed at the sky like pointed teeth, the two towers on either side of the main door like enormous paws waiting to swipe at her and dash her to the rocks in the valley below.  Her courage almost failed her, but a castle meant people, and people meant shelter.  Possibly food.  She just had to hope that whoever owned the castle never knew she was there.  At least until she understood exactly what their connection with her family was.  Noble families all knew one another, it seemed to her, and she knew she had not come far enough to outrun her father’s name and station.

She managed to break into a shuffling run, made it to the main gate, and pulled on the cold iron with a gloved hand, looking upwards to where it towered above her, a gate twenty or thirty feet high.  It didn’t move.  She pushed instead.  Nothing.  Wanting to cry at the thought of coming so near to sanctuary and being denied, she bit back a sob and leaned her pale forehead against the gate in despair.

It swung open.

Relieved, Belle pulled back, watching one of the huge gates opening slowly before her.  Slipping inside, and shooting the gate a curious backward look, she made her way wearily around the side of the castle walls, ignoring the enormous iron-studded wooden doors that were directly facing the gates.  She knew better than to approach the owner directly and ask for assistance; she was looking for the stables, where she could at least be assured of dry straw and a roof over her head.  As she entered the stone courtyard on the lee side of the castle, her heart sank.  Here were stables, indeed, but it looked as though they had not been used in decades.  There were no horses, and the one wooden building she looked in had little in the way of straw.  It smelt musty, too, as though it hadn’t seen a human presence in years.

There were no guards, either, she mused, looking around herself.  No fletchers, no blacksmith.  Not so much as a kitchen boy running an errand.  It could be the storm, of course, but she doubted it.  Even in the depths of winter there were chores to be done, kitchen scraps to be taken out to the midden, chamber pots to be emptied.  She saw no one.

“You must be mad, coming here like this,” she said to herself.  “The place is empty.  You might get out of the wind, but you’ll probably die of hunger.  What makes you think you’ll be safe here?”

She frowned at that, wondering if the castle being abandoned would actually be better for her.  Perhaps it would; at least she could be assured of no one giving her away to whomever might be pursuing her.  She decided to try to get inside.  If she could, she would be out of the wind, and there may even be some dried food left in storage.  Her mouth watered at the thought of it, having eaten nothing all day.  At the very least, she could light a fire and be warm and dry.  She could survive another day.

Mind made up, she approached the thick wooden doors in the stone wall in front of her, and stood for a moment, looking between them.  There was a creaking sound, and the one to the left slowly swung open.  She stepped back a little, frowning suspiciously, but no one came out, so she approached cautiously and peered inside.  A crackling fire in the enormous stone hearth of the kitchen greeted her, and she moaned in relief, shutting the door behind herself and hurrying towards it.  There was a long wooden table, clean and empty, and several wooden chairs that she expected the kitchen staff used when it was time to eat their meals.  The shelves were filled with jars and bottles, dried beans and spices.  The kitchen was empty, to her surprise, and after a moment or two of wondering what she should do, she decided simply to take care of herself.

She dropped her pack and cloak by the fire, spreading the cloak out to dry and shaking out her chestnut curls, then sat down to take off her soft skin boots and the breeches she was wearing, which were soaked to the knees.  Her feet were ice cold, and she stripped off her stockings to inspect them anxiously.  They were deathly white and completely numb, but free from the discolouration of frostbite, for which she was thankful.  She held them up to the fire and began rubbing the life back into them, biting her lip with a hiss at the sting of pins and needles that began to flow through them as the blood returned.

Once her feet were pink and healthy-looking, she turned to the rest of her.  She had a spare tunic in her pack, so after casting a wary eye around the kitchen she stripped off the old one and put that on, briefly fingering the crystal necklace that she never took off.  Her breeches were another matter, and to put them on wet would be stupid, so she draped them over the back of one of the wooden chairs to dry, along with her cloak.  Steam started to rise from them as the fire did its work, and she leaned back against the carved armchair she was sitting in front of with a sigh.

She was still shivering, but she was out of danger, she thought.  Wearily, she pushed herself to her feet, and started looking around for something to eat.  She had not taken more than a few steps before she smelled something delicious, and turned to see a bowl of lamb stew sitting on the kitchen table, fragrant steam issuing from it.  A bowl of lamb stew that had certainly  _not_ been there five seconds ago!

She frowned at it, hesitating, but supposed that food was food, whether magical or not, and that she needed to eat to live.  If whoever owned this castle had magic, it seemed that they did not wish her harm.  Unless they had poisoned the stew, of course.  Telling herself that if they wanted her dead they could simply have left her outside to freeze, she sat down at the table and began to eat, the hot food coursing a trail of fire down her throat and into her belly.  She had to force herself to take it slowly, and gradually she relaxed as the food warmed her from within.  The stew was delicious, and she licked the spoon afterwards and was sorry there was no more.

The meal made her sluggish and drowsy, and she washed her bowl and spoon in the sink, curling up in the armchair by the fire and draping her dirty tunic over her bare legs to keep warm while her clothes dried.  Warm and safe for the first time in days, she soon drifted into sleep.


	3. 12: "Well, this is where I live"

Rumplestiltskin was busy working on a complicated potion in his tower, when he felt the tingle of magic which meant that someone desperate had passed his wards.  He growled under his breath and impatiently brushed his curling hair behind his ears as he bent over the crystal vial on the desk in front of him, not wishing to be disturbed.  Whoever it was could bloody well wait outside until he was done.  Curtains covered the windows in the tower’s round room, and as he had not been outside for days he had no idea that a storm had been raging for the past two.

He continued adding the crushed horn of a unicorn to the potion, one tiny grain at a time.  The potion gradually turned a lurid pink, and he grinned to himself, waving a hand over it and sealing the magic.  Liquid desire in a bottle.  A trade he intended to make with the childless Duchess of Carfell for use on her philandering husband.  He’d have to tell her to keep the randy old goat locked in her chambers if she wished it to have the desired effect and not be wasted on the serving girls.  He corked the potion and flicked his fingers, banishing it until he had need of it.  She would call upon him soon enough.  He hadn’t yet decided what his price would be.

Stripping off the leather apron he wore (unicorn products were volatile when mixed with his magic, and he’d already suffered the indignity of having his leather pants blown off once, thank you very much) he dusted his hands and prepared to go downstairs for some tea.  The tickle at the back of his brain reminded him that he had a visitor, and he ground his teeth, snatching up his coat and pulling it on.  Whoever it was had better have a good reason for disturbing him.  If he was being called away by some ridiculous fop of a prince to help save some equally vacuous damsel he just might curse them both into next year.

He trotted down the stairs, straightening the cuffs of his black leather coat, its high collar and foreboding appearance telling the world that he was not to be messed with, and flicked a hand at the front doors to open them.

The first thing he noticed was that there was no one there.  The second thing he noticed was the storm, its intensity having increased somewhat in the last few hours, the snow starting to blow inside the hallway.  He hurriedly waved his hand again to shut out the howling wind and driving snow.  If whoever had come to seek his help had travelled through  _that_ , they must be desperate indeed.  He tapped his fingertips together in anticipation, feeling certain there was something he could gain from the matter.  Desperate souls made for desperate offers, and he tried to foresee what his visitor would want.  Surprising that he hadn’t seen them coming, but he supposed his foresight couldn’t tell him everything.  He felt the tickle in his mind again, announcing their presence, and frowned to himself.  They had gotten past his outer wards, and the castle only allowed that when a visitor was desperate.  However, if they were not outside the gate…

Waving his hands in front of his face with a swirl of magic, he transported himself outside the castle’s side entrance, where the stables were.  His brow crinkled.  No, no one here, either.  And yet…  He could tell they were still there, that bloody tickle told him that.  He walked into the courtyard, and saw the first evidence of his quarry.  Footprints, almost covered by the snow.  Small footprints, criss-crossing the courtyard.  He began to follow them, almost skipping as he recreated the intruder’s journey, peering into the stables (which was where he expected them to be) and frowning when he found nothing.

He stood in the middle of the courtyard, tapping a finger against his lips, ignoring the snow and the biting wind as it snatched at his hair.  If the person had got inside the courtyard, it meant that not only did the castle know they were desperate enough to ask for his help, but also that he would be inclined to agree to their request.  His eyes followed the footprints to the kitchen door, and he frowned.  If the castle had actually let the person inside, without him there to say yay or nay, it meant that the person  _had something that he needed._

Intrigued, he strode to the kitchen and wrenched open the door.  A game of hide and seek, was it?  Very well…

Rumplestiltskin entered the kitchen slowly, casting his eyes around.  He blinked when he saw the tiny figure curled in the armchair by the cheerful fire.  She was lying with her legs tucked under her, a simple brown tunic draped over them, twin to the one she was wearing.  Dark reddish-brown curls fell over her smooth cheeks, stark against her pale skin.  He could see the damage the wind had done to her, her lips chapped and dry, red patches high on her cheeks.  A  _girl_?  What on  _earth_  could he want from her?  He tapped his fingertips against his leather-clad hip in irritation, and then folded his arms across his chest.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing in my kitchens, dearie?” he demanded sternly, and the girl awoke with a start, shrinking back from him in the chair.  His eyes narrowed.  For a moment there had been utter terror on her face.  He could handle terror.  Terror was something he was used to inspiring.  What he couldn’t deal with was the way she almost seemed to relax when she took in his appearance.

_Whatever she’s running from,_ he thought. _She’s more scared of them than of me._

“I – I’m so sorry, sir,” she stammered, at least  _sounding_  scared.  “The storm – I had to find shelter, and I thought this place was abandoned, but then the door opened by itself and there was a fire, and I was so cold – I’m sorry…”

He waved a hand.  “Yes, yes, the castle let you in,” he said dismissively.  “Now, what is it you want?”

“Want?”  Her brow crinkled in confusion, and she clutched the tunic around herself a little more.  He rolled his eyes.

“No one comes to see me without a deal in mind, dearie, so let’s hear it.  Gold?  Jewels?  A handsome husband and a life of luxury?”

His lip curled; he heard those requests so often it was beginning to grate.  He waited, tapping his fingers on his elbow, as she blinked up at him uncertainly.  He frowned.

“You do know where you are?” he asked, and she bit her lip, gazing up at him with ridiculously big blue eyes.  _Oh gods!  She’s not going to start crying, is she?_

“I’m sorry, sir, I have no idea,” she said, and he hissed in exasperation.

“This is the Dark Castle,” he said, gesturing extravagantly, and watched with satisfaction as her eyebrows shot up towards her hairline.

“Is it?” she asked, with interest.  “I didn’t know, it’s not as though it’s especially dark and menacing, after all.”  She eyed him curiously.  “If this is the Dark Castle, what are  _you_  doing here?”

“What am I—”  He blinked rapidly in consternation before remembering that he was supposed to be terrifying.  “Well, this is where I live!  I’m the owner.  Of the Dark Castle, I mean.”

Her eyes widened as she seemed to realise who she was speaking to, and he loomed over her in an attempt to intimidate, pressing a hand to his chest.  It would probably help if he wasn’t squeaking indignantly, of course.  He decided to make his voice lower.  That would be more menacing.  Yes.

“I am the Dark One,” he rasped.

Her reaction was not what he expected.  He waited for the crying to start, but she merely frowned at him curiously.

“I thought you’d be taller,” she said, and it was  _his_  turn to look astonished.  She blushed as though she was suddenly aware that she’d insulted the most powerful sorcerer in the realms.

“I’m sorry, sir, I meant…”  Her blush deepened.  “I meant, the stories all say you’re ten feet tall and have eyes of moonlight and breathe fire.”

He grunted, mollified.  “Yes, yes.  And that I skin babies and eat them raw, juggling their skulls to entertain myself between eviscerations.”

She snorted quietly, and his eyes narrowed.  She couldn’t possibly be  _amused_  by that, surely?

“Well, as I’m no longer a baby, I’ll take my chances,” she said, her eyes gleaming.  He frowned at her.

“I find that people have an irritating tendency to exaggerate,” he said wryly, and swept his hand up and down his chest.  “The truth is quite bad enough, as you see.”

She looked him over then,  _really_  looked him over, as though he were some sort of strange creature on display.  A creature that she found oddly fascinating.  It was making his skin itch, and he flapped a hand at her, breaking her stare.

“Come on then, missy!  What is it you’re here for?  If you’re not here to deal…”

“I just needed a safe place to sleep, that’s all,” she said, in a low voice.  “I can be on my way as soon as my clothes are dry.”

She nodded to the chairs in front of the fire, and he noticed a pair of breeches and a cloak draped over them.  The thought crossed his mind that the tunic she had pulled over was covering her bare legs, and he was glad he hadn’t told her to stand; he had no desire to embarrass the girl.

“The castle let you in,” he repeated.  “That means that not only do you want something, but that I am likely to agree to it.”

He elected not to tell her the rest.  The girl looked puzzled.

“Well, I suppose when I reached here I wanted warmth and shelter, and food, and the door opened and a fire was burning, and when I turned around there was a bowl of lamb stew on the table…”

He cut her off with a sideways swipe of his hand.

“The castle  _fed_  you?” he asked incredulously, and she nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

He growled under his breath.   _Bloody heap of useless bloody stone getting above itself!  Be feeding every waif and bloody stray that turns up and smiles at it next!_

“I washed my dishes,” she ventured, pointing at the enormous sink, where a bowl and spoon sat.  “I don’t mean to be any trouble to you, I promise.”

He watched her for a moment, drumming his fingers on the leather sleeve of his coat.  A pretty child, to be sure, and she looked as though she had been through much over the past few days.  It wouldn’t kill him to let her wait out the storm.  For a price.

“You desire shelter,” he said.  “Food, and a bed to sleep in.”

She nodded, looking, for the first time, a little fearful of what he might say, and his mouth twisted a little.  Everyone had heard tales of the Dark One, of course, and his unsavoury appetites.  However untrue they were.

“You may wait out the storm, if you clean the kitchen and bring me tea three times a day,” he said, and she blinked.   _Not what she expected.  Good._

“Where will I sleep?” she asked cautiously, and he waved a hand at her, irritated.

“I’ll show you to your room.  The castle will lead you to me when it’s time for tea.  I assume you  _can_  make tea?”

“Of course.”

She frowned, and he was pleased to see a spark of something in her blue eyes.  Strength.  That was it.  She stood up, grimacing at the apparent stiffness in her limbs, her movements awkward.  She was almost limping, but she stood up straight and faced him, looking him directly in the eye.  Clutching the spare tunic to herself to cover her legs as much as she could, she held out her hand.  Taken aback by her willingness to touch him, he shook it.  His skin tingled where she had touched him, and he pulled away and wiped his hand on his coat, making her stare at him in surprise.

“Very well.”  He waved a hand at her other clothes, a whisper of magic taking the last of the water from them.  “Those are dry.  You may put them on.”

The girl watched him cautiously, and he promptly turned his back, hearing the soft rustling of clothing as she pulled on the warm, dry breeches and soft boots, and hefted her pack.

“I’m ready,” she said, and he strode for the door, heading along the corridor to the dungeon cells.  It had been a while since these had housed anyone, but he knew that they were clean and dry.  Not exactly comfortable, but what did she expect?  He opened one with a curl of magic and waved her inside.  The girl looked around, at the small cot and the threadbare mattress, and nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, and he raised his eyebrows.   _Desperate indeed._

“I’ll take tea in an hour,” he said, and stalked out again, heading for the great hall.  She could find her own way around.


	4. 49: "Who hurt you?"

Belle watched him go, a small, thin man only a few inches taller than she, leather pants creaking as he walked.  For all the terrifying tales she had heard of the Dark One, she was unafraid.  He seemed uncertain what to do with her, but she considered herself a good judge of character, and she was fairly convinced that she was safe from any unwanted attentions.  He seemed more bemused by her presence than anything, and she was sure she had heard him muttering something about the castle getting above itself.  All in all, she thanked the gods for directing her to him.  It was highly unlikely that anyone chasing her would dare to call upon the Dark One to ask if he had seen her.  She wondered if he would give her away if they did.  The stories all said that he was rumoured to keep his word, so she expected that she could rely upon him to keep her safe within the terms of the deal they had made.  She had until the storm blew itself out.

Feeling painfully tired, she sat down on the cot, desperately wanting to lie back and relax, but too concerned that she would fall asleep again.  Instead, she began massaging her limbs, trying to work out the knots in her muscles that had built up over the past few days of too much walking and too little rest.  A hot bath would be best, but she had seen no bathroom nearby, and didn’t like to ask the Dark One for anything further.  She wondered if he had a name, or if he would insist on a title.  

Remembering his tea, she stowed her pack by the cot and shuffled wearily back to the kitchen, wincing at the pain in her body.  She found everything she needed already sitting on the table, and frowned curiously, picking up the teapot and looking inside.  Water was boiling in a kettle above the fire, and there was even a plate of small cakes.  Mouth watering, she turned away, not wanting to take any of his food unless he offered it.  For a moment, she was nervous, remembering the tales she had read of eating food made by the fair folk.  Would she be trapped here forever for eating the stew?  If indeed he was one of the Fae; he certainly didn’t look human, but she had seen fairies, and he didn’t look like them either.  He was himself.  The Dark One.

She reasoned that he had told her she could leave once the storm had passed, and therefore the food could have no magical properties that would trap her.  Still, it wouldn’t be polite to eat it without his permission, and so she found a caddy of loose tea next to the tray of tea things and spooned some into the pot, wrapping a cloth around the handle of the kettle and pouring hot water.  Replacing the teapot lid, she picked up the tray, hesitating in the doorway before turning back to the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she said to the empty air.  The castle seemed to be friendly, even if its strange master was not.

The tray seemed unnaturally heavy as she made her way down the corridor, and she supposed that she had not slept for quite as long as she needed.  The muscles of her legs felt as though they were struggling to bear her weight, and she prayed to the gods that she wouldn’t fall, break his porcelain and spill his tea everywhere.  She kept a sharp eye on the ground ahead of her, lamps flickering to life as she went, lighting her path along the corridors.  So that was what he had meant by the castle showing her the way.  She climbed a set of stairs on trembling legs, doors swinging open for her obligingly, and followed the lamplight down another, wider corridor, until she came to a set of double doors.  Unsure whether she should knock, the decision was taken away from her as the doors opened on their own.

She saw him immediately, seated at the end of a long table with his elbows resting on its surface and his fingers tented in front of him, tapping his fingertips together.  Belle made her way carefully to the table, setting down the tea service and noticing that the castle had included two cups and saucers alongside the milk jug and sugar bowl.  She hesitated, and he eyed her curiously.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, and she blushed.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, setting the plate of cakes down next to the teapot.  “Your tea, sir.”

He nodded.  “You may pour.”

She did so, trying to stop her hands from shaking too badly.  It was a little unnerving, being this close to him.  His skin was strangely-hued, greyish green with flecks of gold covering it, like tiny scales.  His amber-eyed gaze was intense, as though he was trying to work out exactly who and what she was.  She hurriedly began inventing a backstory, and hoped it would pass whatever test he might throw at her; she had never been very good at lying.

“What is your name, child?” he asked.

“Belle.”

She bit down on her tongue in frustration.  A wonderful start to her life of subterfuge, giving him her real name!  He made a small noise in his throat; confirmation of something, she thought.  Her head seemed stuffed full of cotton, and there was a faint, high-pitched ringing in her ears, making it difficult to think.

“And what exactly is it that you’re running from, dearie?” he asked softly.

She started at his words, rattling the cup in its saucer as she handed it to him and sloshing tea over the rim.  He reacted smoothly, taking the saucer and pouring the tea back into the cup before adding two lumps of sugar.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, and he nodded.  She expected him to call her on her lie, but he merely stirred his tea.

“Where are you from, and what is it that you do?” he asked, and she schooled her face to stillness.

“I come from Longbourn, to the north of here,” she said, and his eyebrows jerked upwards.  “I am a seamstress’s apprentice.”

She could at least sew, and it had been the first thing to pop into her head.  Given time she was sure she could concoct a believable story, but she was just so _tired_.

“Indeed?”  He settled back in his chair, seemingly uninterested.  “Pass me those cakes, child.”

Obediently, she picked up the plate, moving closer to his chair, and promptly shrieked in surprise as he grasped her wrist, the plate of cakes falling to the table.  He brought her hand up to his face, stroking a forefinger across her palm, and over her fingertips.  His touch made her skin burn and tingle, and she wondered if he was using magic on her.

“No callouses,” he said softly, his eyes gleaming at her.  “Your hands are as soft as a lady’s, Belle of Longbourn, seamstress’s apprentice.”  He pinned her with his gaze.  “Who are you, really?  You’re not from Longbourn, dearie, I know that well enough.  When you tell a lie about your origins, you must always consider your accent.”

He tipped his head to the side, looking her over, pondering, his finger stroking a slow circle on her palm, over and over.  Belle felt herself trembling in his grasp, her heart thudding in her chest.

“The Marchlands, isn’t it?” he said suddenly.  “Near Avonlea, perhaps?  Ah!”

He released her wrist at her change in expression, a satisfied smirk on his face, and she pulled away, rubbing at her arm surreptitiously.  She wanted to cry.  She had thought she was safe, that she could rest for a day or two.  He picked up one of the small cakes and bit into it smugly, his eyebrows twitching at her.  She dropped her eyes, looking at the floor, and wondered if she could make a run for it.  There was a dreadful heaviness in her legs, as though she might collapse at any moment, and she wondered if she’d even make it past the gates.  She raised her head, meeting his eyes, to find him still watching her, and waited for him to ask his questions.  He chewed and swallowed, lifting the morsel of cake held between thumb and forefinger to give it an appraising look.

“Did you make these?” he asked, sounding surprised, and Belle shook her head.

“No, they were there when I entered the kitchen.”

Belle had never baked a cake in her life!  She hoped he wouldn’t ask her to, although she had seen the cooks mixing cakes in the kitchens of her father’s castle, and it didn’t look too hard.  He was eyeing her narrowly.

“When you entered the kitchen?” he asked flatly, and she nodded.

“On the table, with the tea things,” she explained, and he grumbled something under his breath about the castle again.  He popped the last bit of the cake into his mouth, still watching her, and stirred his tea.  Belle could feel herself beginning to flush under his scrutiny.

“There was blood on your cloak,” he said.  “Who hurt you?”

“No one, sir,” she said quietly.

“Ah, then it was you that did the hurting,” he surmised.  “Are you a thief, perhaps?”

“Indeed I am not!” she snapped, raising her chin in indignation, and he seemed amused by her defiance, his smile growing, eyes glinting.

“Then you simply liked the look of bloodstains, did you?” he asked.  “Not exactly your colour, dearie, if I may say so.”

“It – was my horse,” she said reluctantly.  “He broke his leg, and I had to…”

Her voice trailed off, and he studied her carefully, making her feel awkward.

“I have no horses here,” he said, and she nodded.

“I know.  I wouldn’t steal, anyway, believe me.”

Travelling on foot would make staying ahead of Gaston and his men more difficult, but she would worry about that when she had had a good night’s rest.  She waited for him to ask again what she was running from, and her eyebrows rose when he waved a hand at her.

“You may go,” he said dismissively.  “Rest, if you will.  You can bring me tea in four hours.”

Surprised, but relieved, Belle made her way shakily from the room and back down the stairs, managing not to get lost on her way to the dungeons.  She paused in the doorway of the room he had given her, mouth opening in shock.  On the floor beside the cot sat the extra cup and saucer from the tray she had taken him, a tendril of steam rising from the hot tea and two of the small cakes wedged in the saucer next to the cup.  Belle looked around, wondering if it was the castle again, or the Dark One that had sent her this.  She sat down and picked up the delicate porcelain cup, sipping at the hot tea and nibbling at the cakes, but found that she couldn’t taste anything.  Sleep.  She needed more sleep.

She pulled off her boots and breeches, unlacing the tunic and tugging it over her head so that she would be more comfortable.  Curling up on the thin mattress with a sigh, she cradled the tea in her hands as she sipped at it.  She felt that she should really be making plans to leave, but she could still hear the howl of the wind outside.  Even if the Dark One made contact with her old home and told them where she was, she would have time to get away before they could reach her.  Besides, she was so, so tired…  She pulled a blanket over herself, shivering, although her face felt flushed, and let herself drift into sleep.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin went to his spinning wheel after he had finished his tea, frowning as he pondered over the girl.  She was noble-born, he was sure of that, the softness of her skin proved it.  Seamstress’s apprentice indeed!  He snorted to himself.  He doubted she’d ever done a decent day’s work in her life.  He wondered what it was she was running from, for she was clearly terrified of something and desperate for help.  She was also unafraid of him, and that had not occurred in – well, he couldn’t recall how long it had been.  He began to spin, turning the wheel slowly as he thought.  She was tiny, slender and clearly very young, but there was a quiet strength to her too, wisdom in her blue eyes.  An old soul come again, perhaps.

The castle clearly liked her; he had never known it set out extra cups or cakes for a guest.  Whenever Regina visited he had to check the cakes for slugs, although admittedly he didn’t bother to check every time, producing one or two hilarious results.  One day, when the castle had been feeling particularly mischievous, Regina had discovered _half_ a slug in her cake, the other half on its way to her stomach.  He had found this hilarious, although he hadn’t enjoyed cleaning up the vomit she had sprayed on his floor before cursing and storming out.  She hadn’t taken anything from him since apart from tea, and even then only when he drank some first.  But the castle had fed Belle when she arrived and added an extra cup and saucer to the tray of tea things (he was aware that _she_ would not have been so presumptuous as to think she would take tea with the Dark One).  All in all she was a puzzle, and he liked puzzles.  He decided to ask her more questions when she next arrived with the tea, in the hope that he would solve the mystery before their deal ended with the storm.

* * *

It was some hours later that he looked up from the wheel and realised that she was late.  He frowned; the castle knew the times he liked to take tea and should have prompted her.

 _If the wench is sleeping on the job, we may just have to alter the terms of the deal_ , he thought angrily, stalking to the long mirror that stood at the end of the hall and whipping off the patterned shawl that covered it.  He flicked his fingers at the glass, making his reflection disappear and a swirling pattern of blue and purple replace it.  He dropped his hands, glaring at the mirror.

“Show me the girl!” he snapped, and waited for a picture of her sleeping peacefully, presumably stuffed full of the food in his larder.  Possibly drunk…  That would be the last time he sent _her_ tea and cakes!  He drummed his fingers against his thigh when nothing happened.

“Show me the girl!” he repeated, more loudly, and the mirror continued to mock him.  Snarling, he clenched and unclenched his fists, looking around him at the air and wishing he could hurt the disobedient castle.

“So help me, if you don’t do as you’re told, I will turn you into rubble and use the stones to build _pigsties_!” he snapped.  “Now!  Show.  Me.  The girl!”

The mirror continued to show him the same swirling colours, but he could have sworn there was a sulkiness to it.  He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had found a tongue and stuck it out at him.  He gnashed his teeth, and ran an aggrieved hand through his curls.

“Show me Belle,” he said resignedly.

Immediately - as though it was rewarding him for good behaviour, and didn’t _that_ just make him want to spit - the picture changed, to reveal the girl curled on her cot, coughing.  Her cheeks were flushed, her body shaking with tremors beneath the thin blanket, the empty cup and saucer by her side and her finger curled through the thin handle.  He let his head fall back with a groan.   _Bloody marvellous._

“Well, that’s just fucking fantastic,” he said sourly, and stalked off down to the dungeons, the castle cheerfully lighting his way.


	5. 13: "You came back"

He could hear the coughing when he stepped into the corridor that housed the dungeon cells, and winced as a particularly loud bark echoed off the walls.  How had he not noticed that she was desperately ill?   _Because you were showing off and trying to intimidate the girl, you weasel_ , his treacherous mind said snidely.  He flicked an irritable hand at her cell door and watched it swing open.  Belle was curled up beneath the blankets, trying to get as much warmth into her small body as she could, shivering uncontrollably and still clutching the empty teacup.  She let her head roll to the side and looked at him, her eyes glassy with fever.

“You came back,” she whispered, and his brow crinkled.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.

She murmured something unintelligible, her eyes sliding closed, and his heart clenched.  He placed a cool hand on her brow, and hissed at the burning temperature of her skin.  That was the sort of fever that could kill.  She let out a tiny moan at his touch, and he imagined - hoped - that she found the coolness of his hand soothing.

“Well, this won’t do, will it?” he said softly, and slid his hands behind her shoulders and knees, dislodging the cup from her weak grip.  The cup bounced once on the blanket and then hit the floor with an ominous clink, and the girl twisted in his grip.  He cast his eyes briefly to the floor, to see the small cup rolling forlornly on the stone with a chip out of its rim.

“Your cup,” she whispered, and he shook his head as he scooped her up in his arms.

“It’s just a cup,” he said, and she stopped struggling.

“I’m so sorry.”

He could barely hear the words, and her body went limp as he straightened up.  She weighed almost nothing, her skin dangerously hot against his silk shirt, and her head lolled against his shoulder as he carried her out of the dungeon and through the corridors of the castle.  He mounted the main stairway two at a time, turning right towards the west wing, and his own rooms.  There was a guest bedroom next to his, that had not seen a guest in centuries, and he growled to himself as he realised he would have to clean the place before he could make her comfortable.  Well, it was either that, or give her  _his_  room, and he wasn’t feeling  _that_  generous, thank you.  He opened the door with an wave of his hand, and almost dropped the girl as he took in the room.

The last time he had stepped in this room, perhaps fifty years ago or more, there had been a thick layer of dust on everything.  Now it was spotless, clean sheets on the bed, which was draped in blue velvet curtains and covered with a deep blue bedspread.  A cheerful fire burned in the hearth, giving the room a pleasant warmth, and candles sent out a warm light.

He frowned, making a mental note to have words with the castle about this (not that it ever listened) and strode across the room to the door which hid the adjoining bathroom.  Kicking it open in his frustration, he saw to his astonishment that the bath had been filled with cold water, just as he had wanted.  He shook his head, then remembered the girl in his arms.  Bending over the bathtub, he dumped her unceremoniously in the cold water, making her moan in protest.  He dunked her head under the surface and pulled her up again, wiping water from her eyes and splashing it gently over her face, trying to bring down her fever.

The linen shirt she was wearing clung to her skin, her breasts showing through it, the nipples hardened with the cold water. He kept his hands - and, for the most part, his eyes - firmly above her shoulders, splashing her with water, her skin still hot to the touch.  There was a lump between her breasts, and he eyed it for a moment before his curiosity overtook him.  He spied a chain around her neck, thin gold links disappearing down beneath the shirt, and he pulled on it, gradually drawing out a crystal pendant in the shape of a teardrop.  It was a deep shade of violet, and his heart clenched at the sight of it, the  _feel_  of it.  What was this girl doing with something clearly so magical?  His fingers itched to take it and fondle it, to gauge its strength and know its secrets, but he released the chain, letting it slip down into her cleavage once more.  Perhaps this was what he needed from her.  A puzzle for another time.

He kept her in the cold water for a good ten minutes before she responded.  Her eyes flickered open, and she looked at him,  _seeing_  him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and he sat back on his heels, surprised.

“Well, we can’t have this, can we?” he said lightly.  “Rather breaks the terms of our deal, wouldn’t you agree?”

She smiled tiredly.  “Not my fault you didn’t provide for unexpected illness,” she murmured.

His eyebrows climbed up his forehead in surprise.   _Foolishly brave, this one._   She looked around somewhat drowsily.

“Why am I in the bath?” she asked then, and he drew back, suddenly awkward, fingers twisting in the air.

“You have a very high fever,” he said uncertainly.  “I was trying to relieve it.”

“Oh.”  She let her head roll back against the edge of the bath.  “Don’t you have magic?”

“I do,” he acknowledged.  “But all magic comes with a price, and to use it to heal you would take too much of your strength.  I think this is best.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and flashed him a tired, but beautiful smile as she let her head drop again.

He pressed the back of his hand against her cheek.  She was still flushed, but certainly a lot cooler than she had been.  He lifted her out of the water, flicking a hand over her to rid her of the moisture, and carried her through to the bedroom.  She had twined her arms around his neck, her nose pushed into his shoulder.  It was a strange sensation, having someone in his arms.  Someone that needed to be cared for.  By him.  For the first time in centuries.  He wasn’t sure that he was comfortable with the idea.

“Please don’t let them take me,” she murmured.  “When they come, don’t let them take me.”

He almost dropped her in surprise.  A puzzle indeed.  She lay back, head lolling as he placed her carefully in the bed, a sigh escaping her, and he watched her for a moment or two, his fingers working the air as he tried to think what to do next.  Clearly he’d have to alter the terms of the bloody deal, for a start.  He  _hated_  doing that, but it was clear she wasn’t going to be making him tea anytime soon.  Or leaving, come to that.  And who the hell was she running from, anyway?  He wasn’t sure what was going on in Avonlea that moment, but he had not foreseen anything momentous.  The ogre invasion was not due for another few days.

He tapped his fingers together, frowning.  Perhaps a trip to the Marchlands was in order.  He had foreseen that he would be called upon for help with the ogres, just not who would do the calling.  Perhaps now would be a good time to take stock of exactly what was at stake, so he could name the best price.  He looked down at her again, watching her twitch in her sleep, and made a decision.  Plucking a single hair from her head, he wound it around his finger, twisting it until it made a thin, almost invisible ring.  Now to bind it with magic.  She was thrashing a little, a small whimper escaping her, and he watched curiously as a single tear tracked its way down her cheek.   _Perfect._

He touched the delicate ring of hair to the tear, his fingers flickering over it, and watched in satisfaction as the magic bloomed around it and the ring became solid.  Smirking, he slipped it on his finger.  He would be able to keep an eye on her wherever he was with this, and would be alerted if she became distressed.   Belle was still thrashing with the fever, and he ran a hand over her forehead, letting his magic calm her.  A simple spell to ease pain and promote sleep would not take too much of her strength, and perhaps her fever would break in the night.  He needed to talk to her before he paid her homeland a visit.


	6. 1. "Am I supposed to be scared now?"

Rumplestiltskin waited until the girl had slipped into something approaching a peaceful sleep, the light touch of his magic soothing her, before he disappeared to his tower workroom.  The ring on his finger pulsed with a faint warmth, letting him know that she was in no danger, and so he sat down at his spinning wheel and started to spin, fingers delicately selecting pieces of straw.  He allowed his mind to drift, the soothing, rhythmic turn of the wheel almost hypnotic.  Who was she running from, and what did they want from her?  The crystal she wore, perhaps.

He frowned, tapping his fingernails against the smooth wood of the wheel as he thought things over.  The castle had let her in, and had clearly taken a liking to her.  It must be because of the crystal; there certainly couldn’t be any other reason for it to want her there.  If he had some time to study it, perhaps he could find out what it was, and where it had come from.  It made his skin itch; he suspected fairy magic, which didn’t mix well with his own dark curse.  Overall, she was an interesting distraction to puzzle over for a few days, and if she wanted protection, he was more than willing to provide it.  For a price, of course.  A conversation to be held when she was well.  He nodded to himself, having made the decision to offer her another deal, and began to spin again, his thumb unconsciously rubbing over the enchanted ring he wore to keep an eye on her health.

* * *

 

Belle woke with a start, heart thumping.

For a moment she didn’t know where she was.  The bed was warm and comfortable, the silk coverlet the same shade of blue as in her bedroom, but the bed was larger, the room laid out differently.  The heavy curtains opened just enough to let light stream in, and she could see a thin strip of grey sky.  It appeared that the storm was easing, the wind no longer howling outside, and she remembered where she was.  The Dark Castle.  She had fallen ill, and the Dark One, most dreaded and powerful of all the sorcerers in the land, had cared enough to soothe her fever and put her to bed in a room fit for a princess.  She wasn’t sure what that meant, except that she was far less scared of him than the men currently in her father’s castle.

The fire had burned down to embers, and she suspected that he had put more wood on it during the night.  She couldn’t remember him being in the room, but the castle seemed to have its own strange form of magic.  Her throat was dry, and glancing to the side she saw a glass of water, with a jug beside it.  She picked up the glass and drank most of the water, licking lips that were dry and chapped.  It was cool and refreshing, but it reminded her that she needed the bathroom, so she pushed herself upright on shaking arms and slipped from the bed.  Immediately, her legs buckled under her and she hit the floor hard, knocking the breath from herself.

“What are you doing?”

The Dark One’s voice snapped at her, and she looked around to see him standing over her with his hands on his hips, glaring as though she had chosen to fall on the floor just to annoy him.

“I fell,” she said, somewhat defensively.  “I don’t seem to have any energy in my legs.”

He sniffed at that.

“Yes, well,” he said.  “I used a little magic on you.  Told you it would take some of your strength.”

“I thought you said that’s why you wouldn’t use magic to heal me,” she said, and he frowned.

“Oh, so you’d rather suffer?” he asked snidely.  “You were thrashing around!  Hallucinating and being ridiculous!  I don’t have time to babysit you, so I used a simple spell to help you sleep.  You’re bloody welcome, by the way!”

“Oh, I’m grateful!” she said hastily.  “Really I am, I was just - well, I suppose I was curious.”

“Yes, well, don’t sit there on the floor all night,” he said impatiently.  “Get back into bed.  You’ll need another couple of days to heal, and this is already taking up too much of my precious time!”

He held out a hand to her, and she reached up to take it, letting him pull her to her feet.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.

“Very well, very well…”

It was hard to walk, her legs still unsteady, but she could feel his eyes on her, and she didn’t want to fall again.  She kept her eyes on the thick rug ahead of her, toes sinking into the pile as she took each step.  Shutting the bathroom door on him was a relief, and she looked around curiously, noting the large bath of cream marble streaked with gold, and a sink in the same material.  A painted silk screen in the corner hid the water closet.

She splashed some water on her face when she was done, dabbing at it with a towel and leaving her skin damp.  Her cheeks were flushed, red patches of dry skin beneath her eyes where the storm had lashed her.  Her head still felt fuzzy, her chest tight and her limbs like jelly, and for a moment the world started spinning.  She grasped at the edge of the sink to keep her balance, cool marble beneath her palms.  When she went back into the bedroom the Dark One’s frown deepened, and he pressed his palm to her forehead.  His hand was smooth and cool, and felt pleasant against her hot skin.

“You still have a fever,” he said.  “Get back into bed.  The only reason I want people to die in my home is if I kill them.  It’s extremely ill-mannered otherwise.”

Belle wanted to roll her eyes at his tone.

“I don’t think I’m in any danger of dying,” she said.  “But it’s kind of you to care about me.”

“I don’t care!” he snapped, backing away and wiping his hands on his waistcoat.  “I simply don’t want to have to waste my time and energy digging a grave because you were too foolish to take my advice!”

She shot him a very level look at that.

“Am I supposed to be scared now?” she said.  “I can pretend, if you like.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Wander around in that ridiculous shirt all you like, then,” he said stiffly.  “It makes no difference to me if you catch your death.”

He disappeared in a cloud of red smoke, and Belle looked down at herself, her head swimming a little.  The shirt she wore barely came halfway down her thighs, and was thin enough to be almost translucent.  Blushing, she climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up over her.  Perhaps he was right about taking some time to recover.  She reached for the water jug, lifting it with shaking arms to refill her glass, and noticing that the fire was once more burning cheerfully.  He clearly wanted her to at least recover from the fever before he tossed her out into the snow again.

She knew that she needed to speak to him about the deal that they had made, and that she had broken, but she felt in no fit state to go toe-to-toe with the Dark One in one of his infamous trades.  Perhaps when she recovered, they could reach an agreement.  Shelter and safety for service.  It was likely that he was her best hope of survival, and she could only hope that he would be interested in what she had to offer.


	7. 16: "I don't often get the chance to talk to someone like you"

It was another five days before Belle felt well enough to get out of bed, and even then she felt exhausted.  She didn’t think that she could rest for much longer, though; she had already broken the deal they had made, and she was very afraid that she would be thrown out into the cold if she didn’t make herself useful.  She had not seen the Dark One since he had disappeared from the room in what seemed to be high dudgeon, but she suspected that he had been keeping an eye on her.  Or (if not he himself) the castle had.  The fire was always burning, no matter what time she opened her eyes, and there was always a fresh pot of tea by her bedside on a silver tray.  For the first few days she only wanted water, her fever making her desperately thirsty, but when she finally drank the tea it was hot and delicious and tasted as fresh as if it had just been brewed.  She was also sent food: dishes of cut fruit that could not possibly have grown in the depths of winter, bowls of lamb broth thick with barley, or rich beef consommé.  When she was able to sit up without feeling faint, she found solid food on the tray, thick slices of roast beef with mustard and horseradish, pheasant roasted with squash and fresh sage, and delicate pieces of rabbit in a rich wine gravy.

She ate her fill, and when she was done the dishes disappeared and were replaced with dessert.  Belle spooned lemon syllabub into her mouth, humming in pleasure at the flavours.  If the Dark One was going to throw her out into the snow, it appeared he wanted her to have a full belly before he did so.

“Done with lying around, are you?”

His voice made her jump, and she dropped her spoon, letting it rattle in the little glass syllabub dish.  He was standing with his arms folded, fingers tapping on his elbow.  He had long, slender fingers, black nails at the ends.  She wondered if he had always been this way.

“I’m so sorry to have been so much trouble,” she said.  “You looked after me so well; I imagine you didn’t get much sleep the first day or so.”

“Dark Ones don’t need sleep,” he said, and his words piqued her interest.

“Dark Ones?” she asked excitedly.  “Are there more of you?”

“No,” he said flatly.  “No, there’s just me.”

“But you just said—”

“It was a figure of speech!” he snapped.  “And one I have no desire to explain.”

He raised his hand, as though he was about to conjure that red smoke that took him away from her, and she held up her hands.

“No, please don’t go!” she pleaded.  “I don’t often get the chance to talk to someone like you.”

“A demon?” he said snidely, and she blinked.

“I - I didn’t think you were a demon,” she said.  “I thought maybe you were a - a dark fairy, or something.”

“I’m not a bloody fairy!” he snapped.  “Useless, interfering gnats!”

“I’m sorry,” she said hastily.  “I didn’t mean to offend you.  Forgive my ignorance, Dark One.”

He grunted, nodding, and she put her head to the side.

“Do you have a name?” she asked.  “Or would you prefer it if I called you Dark One?  Or - or is there a title?  Should I call you ‘My Lord’, or—”

“I’m not a lord,” he said coldly.  “I’m not a noble.  I have no need of vacuous titles and paltry mortal honorifics.  I am the Dark One.  That should be enough for anyone.”

He seemed irritated, and so she nodded, bowing her head.

“Very well.”

There was silence for a moment, and she let it stretch out, keeping her eyes on the silk coverlet.

“My name,” he said eventually.  “Is Rumplestiltskin.  You may use it.”

“Rumplestiltskin.”  She tried the name, let it fall from her mouth, and looked up at him with a smile.  “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“I doubt that,” he said, and she wanted to sigh.

“I’m sorry to have been a burden,” she said.  “You were very kind to take care of me.”

“Yes, well, it was either that or have you die in my dungeons,” he said, his fingers flickering in the air.  “I’d prefer not to have to deal with weeping relatives making pilgrimages here to mourn your passing.”

“I doubt you’d have to,” she said dryly, and his mouth pursed a little.

“You have no family?”

“I - I don’t know,” she admitted.  “My mother is dead.  My father - he may be dead too.  I’m - I’m trying not to think about it.  There was a rebellion…”

She cut off, chewing at her lower lip, tears forming in her eyes.

“So, that’s why you ran,” he said.

His voice was lower, the high, snide tone gone.  It was warm, accented.  Like the voices she had heard from the north.  Was that where he was from?

“Yes,” she whispered.  “That’s why I ran.”

Silence fell, and she concentrated on her hands, the fingers laced together on top of the blue silk.

“You look better,” he said.  “Deal-breaking appears to agree with you.”

Belle sighed, glancing up at him.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said sincerely.  “Truly I am.  Would you allow me to pay what I owe when I’m well?”

He paced slowly back and forth, boots clicking on the wooden floor, as though he was thinking it over.

“We agreed that you could wait out the storm,” he said.  “The storm has now passed.”

“I know, but—”

“So I take it you wish to strike a new deal?”

She felt hope bloom in her chest.  Perhaps he wouldn’t throw her out after all.

“Yes,” she said.  “And - and for a longer period of time, if you’re willing.”

He regarded her, his eyes flickering over her.

“Rest first,” he said.  “If you’re well enough to rise this evening, come to the great hall, and we’ll discuss it.  Perhaps a deal can be struck.”

He disappeared in a plume of red smoke before she could respond with anything more than a nod, and Belle lay back against the pillows with a sigh.  Perhaps they each had something to offer the other.  Perhaps she could be safe.


	8. 14. "H-how long have you been standing there?"

Belle felt better that evening, so as the sun was setting she slipped from the bed and went to the bathroom.  She pushed open the door to find that the bath was full of steaming water, a light perfume of roses drifting up from it, and she smiled to herself, glancing around the room as though she would see whatever spirit haunted the castle and saw to her every need.

“Thank you,” she said aloud.

She put her hands on the hem of her shirt, preparing to lift it over her head, and hesitated.  Something was clearly watching over her, enough to know when she needed food and drink and that she required a hot bath.  For a moment she wondered if it was the Dark One himself.  In which case he was spying on her.  In which case he would see her in her bath.  Naked.

She chewed her lip, looking around anxiously, her fingers twisting in the linen of the shirt.  There were no obvious spy-holes around the place, but she reasoned that the Dark One could easily use magic if he wanted to look at her.  After a moment of hesitation, she shrugged.  She was alone with him in his castle.  He could have done far worse than look on her naked, if he was so inclined, and he seemed so uncomfortable at being touched by her that she thought it unlikely.  Either way, she couldn’t spend the rest of her time here without bathing.  Nodding to herself, and casting a final, suspicious frown around the room, she stripped off the shirt she wore and climbed into the bath, the crystal necklace she had worn for as long as she could recall still hanging between her breasts.

The water was wonderfully hot, and she let out a hum of pleasure, stroking her hands up over her arms before sinking down in the bath to wet her hair.  There were a number of perfumed products to the side of the bath, some of which she recognised, and she spent half an hour or so washing her hair and body and soaking the knots out of her muscles.  When she was done, she wrapped herself in a thick silk robe that was hanging by the bathroom door and went through to the bedroom.

It took some time to comb the tangles from her hair, but she managed it, and painstakingly brushed out her dark curls, leaving her hair soft and shining.  She tied it back from her face with a small clip that she found on the dresser, and turned to her clothes.  Her pack was there, leaning against the dresser, and she had a clean shirt, tunic and stockings in there, so she pulled those on, along with the soft leather breeches and boots she had worn.  Her little coat went over the top, buttoned tight around her, and she smoothed the front of it in the long mirror, biting her lip as she looked herself over.  She was a little paler and thinner, hardly surprising after her illness, and she felt somewhat lightheaded.  Well enough to be up and about though, which meant that she was well enough to make a deal with Rumplestiltskin.  She wondered what he would ask of her.

Belle turned this way and that, pursing her lips as she studied her clothing.  Well-made, to be be sure, but perhaps not the outfit one would expect of a noble lady.  That hadn’t been her first thought on donning the clothes, nor Graham’s on procuring them, she suspected.  The outfit meant that she could run and ride if she needed to, and that was all she cared about at the moment.  It wasn’t as though the Dark One would be asking her to a ball.

“If you’ve quite finished admiring yourself, we can eat.”

Rumplestiltskin’s voice made her jump, and she looked around to see him standing by the fireplace with his arms folded, frowning a little.

“H-How long have you been standing there?” she stammered.

“Long enough to see that I’m going to have to give you an instruction,” he said.  He unfolded his arms and took a step forward.  “You will find that the mirrors in this castle are covered.  All except for this room.  You are not to uncover the mirrors in the other rooms, do you understand?”

“I—”  Belle opened and closed her mouth.  “Not really, no.”

“It’s a simple enough statement, are you dense?” he snapped, and she frowned at him, raising her chin.

“There’s no need to be rude.”

He opened his mouth then, but snapped it shut.

“Follow me, if you actually want some dinner this evening,” he said grumpily, and stomped from the room.

Belle followed him at a more sedate pace, rolling her eyes at his back.  The room he had placed her in was in a very ornate wing, and she had to admit that she was glad he had come to fetch her; she would have had no idea how to reach the great hall from there.  They went down a large, sweeping flight of stairs with carved marble banisters that led to what she recognised were the large double doors to the great hall.  He opened them with a flick of his hands, and she trotted to keep up, following him in.  A large fire burned in the hearth, making the room pleasantly warm, and Belle’s eyes widened at the sight that greeted her.  The long table was set with six large candelabras, elaborate arrangements of flowers, and a myriad of dishes in silver and porcelain.  Delicious smells were coming from them, savoury hints of lamb and rosemary, wild boar and roasted apples, and the heady scent of hot spiced mead.  Rumplestiltskin had stopped dead, hands on hips, muttering to himself, and Belle paused a few steps behind him.

“Is - is something wrong?” she asked.

He flinched at her words, as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t, but then raised his head, glaring at the room in front of him.

“I said _no fuss_!” he said loudly.  “What the hell do you think I meant by that?  Glass of water and crust of bread would have been _fine_!”

There was silence: a heavy, almost sulky silence that made Belle want to giggle.  Rumplestiltskin muttered under his breath and stomped to the head of the table, throwing himself into the heavy carved chair.

“Well, sit down, sit down,” he said impatiently.  “You should eat something before you fall over.”

Belle slipped into a chair to his right, and he poured her a glass of mead, and a larger one of water.

“Help yourself,” he said stiffly.  “I have no idea what you want to eat.”

“Well, it all looks wonderful,” she said, and he grunted something.

He seemed irritated, and she suspected that the castle had something to do with it, so she busied herself with the food in front of her.  There were long slates heaped with sliced roast boar and lamb, small porcelain dishes of mint jelly and roasted apples with cinnamon and anise, mashed potatoes studded with finely-sliced green onions, and carrots glazed with honey.  Belle put a little of everything on her plate, using tongs to lift long, wilted stems of fried greens dripping with butter.

“This is delicious,” she said.  “Where do you get such food in the depths of winter?  Do you use magic?”

“It’s not winter everywhere,” he said, in a tone that didn’t invite further questions.

She noticed that he was merely picking at the lamb and vegetables on his plate, eating it as though he knew he needed to, but it gave him no pleasure.

“Who cooks for you?” she asked.  “I saw no servants in the castle.”

“There’s magic enough here to see to my needs without a bunch of interfering servants,” he said.  “If indeed any of them would come.”

Belle wanted to sigh.  She concentrated on her food instead, the roasted pork at once crispy and soft, the lamb rich with rendered fat, the sharpness of the mint jelly cutting through.  She ate in silence for a while, sipping at the spiced mead.  Rumplestiltskin ate, but little, and drank a glass of mead.  Eventually she wiped her mouth with a napkin and sat back in her chair.

“So,” she said.  “You mentioned a deal.”

As though her words were a signal, the food, candles and flowers disappeared from the table, replaced with a decanter of red wine and two glasses, a scroll of paper and a quill pen and ink.  Belle sucked in a breath, eyes wide.  The Dark One sat back in his chair, a smirk twisting his mouth.

“Ah yes,” he said.  “Let’s discuss you paying me what you owe me.”


	9. 4. "Don't be scared, I just need you to come with me for a minute"

Belle waited for the Dark One to speak.  She was frantically trying to think of something she could offer in return for his help, but her brain was not cooperating.  His fingers caressed the carved arms of the chair, and the corner of his mouth drew up in a smirk.

“Firstly, tell me who you are,” he said.  “And none of that ridiculous seamstress tale you tried to spin me last time.”

Belle hesitated before answering, but she suspected that he already guessed who she was.

“Lady Belle,” she said.  “I’m daughter to Sir Maurice.”

“Knight of the Marchlands,” he mused, two fingers stroking his chin.  “Yes.  Set to defend the far south-western edge of King George’s realm, no?”

“We’re a distant outpost,” she admitted.  “I’ve seen the King only once.  We asked for help when the ogres first attacked, but none came.”

Rumplestiltskin sniffed, and poured them each a glass of wine.

“Nothing like a war for testing the extent of one’s reach,” he said.  “I suspect His Majesty was trying to see if his distant troops were loyal.  Whether they would defend his borders, or run for the hills.”

Belle’s mouth fell open, and she pushed out of her chair, quivering with outrage.

“But that’s - that’s—”

“Politics,” he said.  “Hardly unusual, for his kind.”

“But people have _died_!” she said angrily.  “Rulers are supposed to care for their subjects!”

“Peasants and soldiers,” he said dismissively.  “You think the King cares about either?”

“ _I_ care!” she protested.  “Those are good men!  The wars will devastate our villages if the ogres reach them!  the men are all that’s holding them back!”

“Holding them back?” Rumplestiltskin let out a high-pitched laugh.  “What a ridiculous notion!"

“It’s what the stewards said,” she said, feeling defensive, and he smirked.

"Tell me, my Lady, have you ever seen an ogre?”

“Yes,” she said stoutly.  “I have.  An ogre child, anyway.”

He snorted, and she frowned at him.

“Aye, they’re all very well as children,” he said.  “Fully grown they’ll rip your arms and legs off just to ease the boredom of a long day.  Holding them back, indeed!”

“I’m - I’m sure the stewards said that to keep the villagers’ spirits up,” she said stiffly.  “And if you know so much about it, why don’t you stop them?  You’re the most powerful sorcerer in the land.”

“Because no one’s asked me to,” he said, as though it were obvious, and she frowned at him.

“Well, I’m asking you now.”

“Really?”  He leaned back, tapping his fingertips together.  “This is the deal you wish to make?  For me to stop the ogres?”

“Can’t you do it?” she asked, inclining her head, and he tsked at her, flapping a hand.

“Well of course I can do it!  The work of moments!”

“Then why don’t you?”

His eyes flicked over her, and she wondered what he was thinking.

“Stopping a war, hmm?” he said, almost to himself.  “And here I thought you wanted a place of sanctuary.”

Belle hesitated.

“That too,” she admitted.  “But if I have to make a choice between myself and my people, I choose them.”

He eyed her over the top of his tented fingers, an unreadable expression on his face.

“How very noble,” he said, his tone snide, and she clenched her jaw.

“You don’t have to insult me,” she said stiffly.  “Can you do it or not?”

“Oh, I could take care of your little war,” he said casually.  “For a price.”

“Name it.”

He pushed to his feet, pacing slowly back and forth, fingers twirling in the air.  She watched him, heart thumping in trepidation.

“In my experience, nobles are almost entirely useless for anything except spending the taxes they take from their peasants and trying to kill each other,” he said.  “It’s not as though you have a trade or a skill, and I have no need of gold.  So the question is, what can you offer?”

She didn’t want to answer that.  There was the obvious, of course, and if he had been a normal man she might have considered it.  An alliance by marriage to a noble house, albeit a small one, and the promise of children who would grow up with wealth and titles.  He was not a normal man, however, and from his reaction to her thus far, she suspected he would be repulsed by the idea.  Rumplestiltskin was still pacing, that little smirk on his face and the light of mischief in his eyes.

"I'm sensing a distinct lack of bargaining power on your part," he said snidely.  "Which means I'll have to come up with something myself.  Which also means I get to set the terms.  How unfortunate."

“I’m good at research,” she said suddenly, and he spun on his toes to face her, looking perplexed.

“What?”

“Books,” she said.  “I - I like to read.  If you wanted to research something, some form of magic that you hadn’t come across, perhaps—”

“I’m the bloody Dark One!” he snapped, his voice almost a squeak.  “I’ve been alive _three centuries_!  Do you honestly think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest that,” she said hastily.  “Please, I’m sure you’re the most knowledgeable wizard there is, I just thought—”

“You can clean,” he interrupted, and she blinked.

“What?”

“Clean,” he said impatiently.  “I trust you know how?  You must have seen your servants do it, after all!  Mop floors, dust things, you understand?”

“Of course I know how to clean!” she said hotly.  “I just thought I could be of more use to you if—”

“You think I’m going to make a deal with you so you can lie around in a pile of books all day?” he snapped.  “You can clean.  And serve the meals.  And the tea.”

“But…”  She bit her lip, looking around.  “I thought your magic took care of all that.”

Rumplestiltskin smiled nastily.

“All magic comes with a price,” he said.  “And this is mine.  I stop the ogres, in return for you agreeing to serve me.”

“For how long?” she asked, and he wiggled his head, as though he was thinking.

“Oh - let’s say five years.”

“Let’s say one,” she countered, and his eyes widened.

“This is not a negotiation!” he snapped.

“I thought that was exactly what it was,” she said, folding her arms.  “Two, then.”

He opened and closed his fists, glaring at her.

“Do you have any idea how much magic it’s going to take to stop an entire tribe of ogres?” he demanded.  “Four!  And not a day less!”

“Three,” she said.  “You called it a little war.  That you could easily take care of it.  The work of moments, you said.”

He almost ground his teeth at that, and she wanted to smirk.

“I might be persuaded to agree to three,” he said coldly.  “But I want something else.  Something to - sweeten the deal, as it were.”

He began pacing again, slowly working his way behind her, and she felt her jaw clench, unnerved by being unable to see him, by the uncertainty of what he might do.  The sound of his bootheels seemed very loud on the wooden floor, and it was a relief when he came back into view.  Her heart was thumping rapidly, and she found it difficult to meet his eyes.  Which was of course what he wanted, so she made herself do it with as flat a stare as she could manage.  He looked her over, his gaze lingering just below her neck, and she wanted to lick her lips.  Perhaps he didn’t find her repulsive after all.

“You have a crystal pendant around your neck,” he said softly.  “Where did you get it?”

Belle clutched at it instinctively, feeling the familiar shape of it beneath her fingers.   _So that’s what he was looking at._

“I’ve - I’ve had it all my life,” she said.  “My mother said it was a present from my fairy godmother.”

“Really?”  He gave a brief nod, as though she had confirmed something for him.  “A present, hmm?”

“She said it would protect me,” said Belle, shrugging.  “I guess - I guess I’ve worn it for so long I didn’t really think about it.”

“And which of those simpering insects is your fairy godmother?” he asked, biting off the words.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  “I - I never saw her.  This is all I have of her.  Mother said she died a long time ago.”

“Not much protection, then is it?” he said snidely.  “Still, it might be useful.  I’ll take it in payment for that extra year.”

“No!” she protested, and his eyebrows shot up.

“No?”

“Please - it’s - it’s all I have left from my home,” she pleaded.  “I promised my mother I would always wear it.”

Rumplestiltskin drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair, watching her closely.

“Very well,” he said.  “If you won’t allow me to take it, perhaps I may borrow it from time to time.”

“What for?” she asked.

“I doubt you’d understand if I told you,” he said, his lip curling a little, and she lifted her chin.

“I might.”

His eyes widened, but then he raised a hand, fingers twirling, as though he were already bored with the conversation.

“Are you willing to make a deal or not?”

Belle hesitated, but nodded.

“Alright,” she said.  “You can - you can borrow it.”

“How generous,” he said, his tone wry.  “That has to be worth at least a month of that year.”

Belle sighed.  “And the rest?”

He smiled unpleasantly.

“That’s as low as I’m willing to go, dearie.”

She thought quickly.

“In that case, I’ll agree to the four years in full,” she said.  “But - but I want something else in return.”

“Go on,” he said cautiously, and she hesitated.

“I want you to go to my father’s castle and see what happened there,” she said.  “To find out what happened, if - if the rebellion held.”

“And if it has?”  He stepped back on one foot, fingers twisting in the air.  “You wish me to kill the intruders and bring you their heads?”

“No!” she said hastily.  “Please, no more death, I’d - I’d prefer to deal with them myself when the time comes and our deal is at an end.  With the ogres gone they can get back to leading the people as they were supposed to.  I just want your word that you won’t let them harm the villagers in the interim.  Or the servants.”

“Am I supposed to be babysitting entire villages now?” he snapped, and she sighed.

“I know you can do it,” she said.  “Are you content with my offer?”

He turned from her sharply, stalking back to the table and flicking his hand.  The quill pen leapt out of its holder, dipping into the inkwell and wiping off the excess before it began to write, the lustrous red feather bouncing in the air as words flowed across the parchment.

“Four years of your no doubt substandard service,” he said, his tone sour.  “I must be going soft.”

“I’ll work hard, Rumplestiltskin,” she said.  “I promise.”

“You’d better,” he snapped.  “No lying around getting dangerous fevers.”

She wanted to bite her lip in amusement at that, but remained silent, watching the quill scribble the terms of their deal.  He let her read it over when it was done, and she pursed her lips as she checked each clause.  He had left nothing out, and she couldn’t see anything in there that she wasn't prepared to do, so she nodded her agreement.  The quill pen jumped back into the inkwell and then flew to her waiting hand.  Belle signed her name at the bottom, a strange coldness flowing over her as she did so.  She wondered if it was his magic, binding her.

The quill slipped from her hand and into his, and he bent over the table, scrawling an elaborate signature and finishing off with a flourish and a stab of the nib.  At once, the coldness became warmth, wrapping around her and flushing her cheeks.  The heat became too much, almost burning, and she sucked in a breath at the sensation.  Rumplestiltskin turned to face her, and the parchment rolled up in his hand before disappearing with a puff of red smoke.

“The deal is struck,” he said quietly.“Now, where’s your cloak?”

Belle blinked, heat still flushing her skin.

“What?”

“Your cloak,” he said, with a touch of impatience, and sighed before clicking his fingers.  A fur-lined cloak appeared out of nowhere, and he threw it to her.

“Put that on,” he said.

She clutched at the folds of the cloak before throwing it around her shoulders and fastening the worked silver clasp with trembling fingers.  When she looked up, he was clad in a coat made of dragon-hide, scales glittering in the firelight, just as his skin was.  He was staring at her, his eyes too large, the irises like burnished gold, and she felt her heart thump painfully. _The Dark One.  I made a deal with the Dark One.  Is that what burns?  His magic inside me?_

“Are you alright?” he said.

His voice was lower again, more human.  It was an odd contrast to his appearance.  She shook her head, and he held out his hand.

“The magic can take you that way sometimes,” he added.  “Don’t be scared, I just need you to come with me for a minute.”

Still a little shaken, she reached out to take his hand, and the great hall disappeared in a cloud of red mist.


	10. 25: “It looks like you’re in trouble there. Can I help?”

Belle blinked, stumbling a little and clutching the Dark One’s hand for balance as they appeared on the side of a hill, thick forests at their backs.  The sky ahead of them glowed red from the campfires of the army that squatted in the shelter of the broad valley, smoke drifting up and catching in her nose as she breathed in.

“The King’s army,” said Rumplestiltskin, waving a hand.  “Sitting there drinking rum and eating their rations, with little knowledge of what is bearing down on them.”

“The ogres?”  Belle looked around fearfully.  “Where are they?”

“Oh, a league or so that way,” he said carelessly, flapping his hand in the other direction.  “Far enough for me to do what I came here for, and close enough to pose a significant threat. Come.”

He pulled on her hand, tugging her with him, and Belle followed him down the hill.  He headed for a tent that was larger than the others, turning to Belle with a grin and pressing a long finger against his lips.  She could overhear conversation inside the tent: several voices were arguing.

“I’m not sending my men on another of those pointless charges,” snapped one.  “It’s nothing but a suicide mission! I say we find the ogres when they sleep and kill them!”

“With what?” demanded another.  “It takes three jabs just to get through the skin, and by that time they’ll be awake and roaring and the men will be torn limb from limb.  Again.”

“We need magic!” insisted a third.  “If you had listened to me when I first suggested it, we might be in a very different place.”

“The fairies have already said they can’t help.”  The first voice was dismissive. “I don’t see what other option we have.”

“Can’t or won’t?” said the third dryly.  “I told you, we need the Dark One for this.”

“I’m not giving all I own to the Dark One,” snapped the first voice.  “A deal with him is never what you think it is.”

Rumplestiltskin squeezed Belle’s hand, waving the other and enveloping them in more of the red smoke.  When it cleared, she realised that they were now inside the tent.

“I think you’ll find that a deal with me is always exactly what I say it is,” he said snidely.  “No more, no less.”

Four knights in full armour stood around a table with a map spread on it, candles guttering in the lamps set around them.  They jumped at the sound of his voice, hands going to weapons before they could focus on him. The Dark One _tsked_ under his breath, shaking his head.

“You really should learn to guard this place,” he said.  “Imagine if the horde of ogres over the hill just came running over here to squish you all into jelly without you having any inkling they were on their way.  Embarrassing...”

His voice taunted them, and the men glared.

“Who are you?” demanded the knight who had spoken first.

Belle recognised him.  Sir Geraint, one of the knights from north of the Marchlands.  A seasoned warrior, and a fair man beloved by his troops. His eyes flicked to her, and widened.

“Lady Belle!” he gasped.  “What - what are you doing here?  You’re in danger!”

“No, she isn’t,” said Rumplestiltskin, in a bored voice.  “But you are. All of you. Luckily for you, I’m here to change that.”

“Begone, imp!” snarled the second man, hand on the hilt of his sword.  Rumplestiltskin sent him an ugly smile.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he said, amusement plain in his voice.  “I am the Dark One.”

He swept an elaborate bow, and the men glanced at one another, surprise and a little fear on their faces.  Rumplestiltskin straightened up again, a wicked grin on his face.

“It looks like you're in trouble there,” he said, his tone snide as his fingers flicked at the map.  “Can I help?”

“We have no need of your help, Dark One,” said Sir Geraint stiffly.  “I will not have any of my people beholden to you. There have been innocent victims enough in this war.”

“Really?”  Rumplestiltskin tapped his fingers against his lips.  “Strange. I thought I could smell desperation and fear in the air.  I’m not usually wrong.”

“We’re not desperate,” said the second knight.  “We’re - regrouping.”

“Regrouping,” echoed the Dark One.  “Yes. Of course you are.”

Sir Geraint opened his mouth to respond just as the tent flaps were pushed open and a soldier burst in, eyes wide.

“My Lord!” he gasped.  “Ogres on the move! They’ll be here in half an hour!”

“Oh dear…” said Rumplestiltskin sadly, tapping his fingers together.  Belle whirled to face him.

“Do something!” she said hotly.  “I made my deal with you, it’s time for you to honour it!”

Rumplestiltskin gave her another bow, a slight mocking edge to it.

“But of course.”

He smiled thinly as he straightened up, and favoured each knight with a stern look.

“This is Lady Belle, of the Marchlands,” he went on. “She has made a deal with me in return for stopping this war.  I trust that when that deal is over, you will remember her sacrifice.”

“Lady Belle!” protested Sir Geraint, reaching out a hand.  “Please! You can’t do this! Not with this - this _beast_!”

“Oh my, how rude.”

Rumplestiltskin pressed a hand to his chest with an affronted look, and Belle sighed.

“I made my choice, Sir Geraint,” she said.  “If you care for me, and for my people, please look in on my father’s castle on your return home.  I believe they could use your help.”

“I…”  He looked confused, but nodded.  “Of course, my Lady.”

“And now for my part of the deal,” said Rumplestiltskin, and took Belle’s hand again.  “You may as well tell your men to start packing, Sir Knight. I promise you’ll be home in a matter of days.”

He flicked his fingers, the red mist swirling around them again, and Belle clutched at his hand as she stumbled again.  The mist disappeared, and she saw that they were at the top of a hill, gazing down into another valley. She suspected it was the one next to the soldiers’ camp.  An enormous band of ogres was stomping along, the ground shaking beneath their feet, heavy clubs in their hands. Belle swallowed.

“You - you can stop all of them?” she asked, and he nodded.

“I can,” he said tersely, letting go her hand.  “Let’s see what your service has bought, hmm?”

He flourished his hands, and Belle gasped as a cloud of mist burst from them, flowing down the hill towards the ogres.  There was a chorus of confused roars and grumbles, followed by a series of heavy thumps. Then silence. The mist lifted, and Belle’s eyes widened as she looked across the valley.  From end to end there were bodies of ogres, sprawled on the ground. She swallowed hard, shaking her head.

“You - you didn’t have to kill them all,” she said.  “You could have sent them far away, or - or made them harmless somehow.”

“And you think they’d stop?” he asked mildly.  “You heard Sir Stabs-A-Lot in there. Mindless beasts, sent to slay the innocent.”

Belle hesitated.

“I - I don’t think they’re that,” she admitted.  “Not mindless beasts. I know they care for their children.”

“You do?”  His eyebrows shot up.  “How, pray tell?”

She hesitated again.

“I think - I think I know the reason for the war,” she said.  “Sir Gaston. He - he found an ogre child, lost in the woods. He..."

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard before she continued.

"He tortured it," she said, her voice uneven.  "I set it free, let it go back to its family. He said - he said I was to blame for the hordes that followed.  For all the death and destruction. And now I’m to blame for this, too.”

She hung her head, wanting to cry over the waste of it all.  So many lives, and all because she had cared enough to free a scared and frightened child from the clutches of her betrothed.  She blinked back tears.

“Belle.”

Rumplestiltskin’s voice made her look up.  It was that low, human tone again, and when she met his eyes he was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face.

“They’re not dead,” he said, almost gently.  “Just sleeping.  Ogres have very short memories.  If I can just distract them for long enough, they’ll forget all about why they were here.  By the time they wake, the troops will be sleeping in their own beds, and the ogres will only be interested in making their way home.”

She felt her mouth drop open.

“Really?” she whispered, and his nose crinkled.

“I often wonder what caused the first Ogres War,” he said absently.  “I suspect it was some sort of human viciousness on that occasion, too.”

“You were around during the first Ogres War?” she asked, with interest.  “How old are you?”

He huffed at that.

“My, my, what a rude question!” he trilled, back to his high, snide voice.  “I don’t recall asking _you_ how old _you_ are.”

“Forgive me, Rumplestiltskin.”

She dropped her eyes, but was secretly burning with curiosity.  How much had he seen? How much did he know?

“Yes, well.”  He wiped his hands on his coat, as though trying to rid himself of something unpleasant.  “Let’s get you back to the castle, shall we? You’ll need some rest if you’re to start work tomorrow, and I have a visit to make.”


	11. 53: "Are you taking his side against me?"

Rumplestiltskin transported Belle back to the Dark Castle, depositing her in her own room before disappearing again, her surprised expression the last thing he saw before he vanished.  Her sympathy for the ogres had been unexpected, and while he certainly hadn’t intended to kill them (ogres made deals just as easily as humans, and were more honest, by and large) he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had asked him to, given the toll the war had taken on her people.  And yet she had pitied them, and told him of the ogre child she had set free. A noblewoman with a brave soul and a gentle heart, it seemed. Perhaps too gentle, for the world they lived in.

He knew the location of her father’s castle, although he had not been called to deal with the man himself before.  It was a simple enough thing to transport himself to the Great Hall and sit on one of the thick oak beams high in the ceiling above the heavy wooden table below.  Three knights were clustered around a map, on which troop movements were marked, and a heavy stone figure representing the army of ogres. The biggest of them was also the youngest, a tall man with dark hair and a hard look in his eyes, but with a face that Rumple suspected meant that women found him attractive.

“Scouts reported ogres on the move perhaps five days’ march from here, closing in on Sir Geraint’s troops,” said one of the knights, a somewhat stout older man with wings of white at his temples.  “If we can’t keep the people safe, Gaston, we’ll never get them to accept your leadership.”

_Ah.  So that’s Sir Gaston.  I might have known._

“We won’t get them to accept anything if the Lady Belle is running around the countryside stirring up trouble,” said another, in a dry voice.  He was of a similar age to the first, but tall and lean, with reddish hair that was flecked with silver.

“You know how popular she is with the commoners, Cedric,” he went on.  “Her views on taxes almost caused a rebellion on my lands! What if she turns the peasants against us?  It’s hard enough to get decent work out of them, and if we need to press some of them to fight the ogres...”

“Lady Belle, leading a rebellion?”  Sir Gaston let out a booming laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Renard!  She’s barely more than a child! A girl! I doubt she knows one end of a sword from the other!”

“There are more ways to cause trouble than with weapons,” said Sir Renard coldly.  “You underestimate her. You always have. The girl is clever, Gaston, and the people love her.  You should have killed her when you had the chance.”

Rumple’s fingernails dug into the wooden beam.  A pity he had agreed no killing.  It might have been fun to string these three up by their entrails and watch them dance.

“He’s right, Gaston,” added Sir Cedric.  “We need to make sure she can’t cause us any trouble if we’re to get the King to ignore what we did and divide Maurice’s lands between us.”

“Are you taking his side against me?”

Gaston stepped up close to Sir Cedric, chest thrown out and jaw protruding aggressively, and Cedric held up his hands.

“I’m - I’m just saying.”

“Calm yourself, Gaston,” said Renard in a flat voice.  “The deed is done, and there’s no point fighting amongst ourselves.  We need to deal with the Lady Belle.”

 _Kill my new servant, would you?_  Rumple scowled down at them.   _You’re lucky she already made her deal with me, you snivelling rats!_

“I sent that Huntsman after her,” said Gaston dismissively, waving a hand.  “He’ll bring her back, that’s if she didn’t perish in the midst of that storm.  Perhaps the snow will cure that particular headache of mine.”

_I could strike your fat head from your shoulders and bounce it around the room.  That should cure anything._

The double doors to the hall swung open at that point, and a man walked in, clad in the soft leather clothes of a ranger with a heavy fur-lined cloak over the top.  There was a quiver of arrows on his back, and he had a grim expression on his face, dark stubble covering his cheeks and chin.

“Well?” snapped Sir Gaston. “Where the hell is she?”

“I haven’t found her,” said the man, hitching his cloak on his shoulders.  “Not sure I’ll ever find her.”

“I thought you were Master of the Hunt,” said Gaston roughly.  “Seems to me you couldn’t find your arse with both hands!”

“The storm blew for days,” said the man, in a monotone.  “Even the dogs can’t follow a trail through all that snow.”

“I don’t care if you have to get on your hands and knees and scour every inch of the land until you find her!” snapped Gaston.  “Bring her back, and root out who helped her escape!  If any of the villagers have taken her in I want you to set an example, do you hear?”

“Sir,” said the man, with a nod, and ducked out of the room.

Rumple tapped fingers against his lips.  A problem for later, if indeed the man managed to follow Belle’s trail.  He needed to find out exactly what had gone on in this castle, and he thought that he knew a way to do that.  It would involve a certain amount of trickery, but he certainly wasn’t above making people hear what they wanted to hear.  Besides, he had his deal with Belle to think of, including the promise to protect her people from these men. He decided it was time to make his entrance, so he disappeared from the beam, reappearing in the heavy throne-like chair that sat near the end of the table.  The men hadn’t noticed, all standing with their backs to him.

“Let’s deal with the more pressing matter of the ogres, shall we?” said Gaston.  “They’ll be on us in a matter of days. We need more men.”

“More men won’t stop these creatures,” said Renard impatiently.  “We’ve all been sending men at them since this war began, and we have nothing to show for it but thousands of bodies and a few dead ogres.  We’re desperate!”

“Now, that’s what I like to hear.”

Rumple’s snide voice made all three jump, hands going to swords as they turned to face him.

“How did you get in here?” demanded Gaston, and Rumple twirled his fingers.

“Magic, of course,” he said, pushing up out of the chair.  “The same magic that can answer all your prayers.”

“We have no need of prayers, imp!” snapped Gaston.

“No, you don’t seem the pious type,” he agreed.

“Gaston, I think that’s the Dark One,” whispered Sir Cedric, and Rumple gave him an ugly grin.

“Ah, so my reputation precedes me,” he said, rubbing his hands together.  “Well, that makes things simpler. Although I had expected to find another knight here.  The local lord, Maurice?”

“He’s dead,” said Gaston, after a pause.

“Died peacefully in his sleep, did he?” asked Rumple, pressing his hand to his chest in mock sympathy.

“He died in battle,” said Gaston curtly, and Rumple’s grin widened.

“A hero to the last,” he drawled.  “Now. You have a large and very angry problem on your lands, and you want my help to deal with it, correct?”

“The ogres are destroying our lands and our people,” said Renard, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “But I’m well aware that the Dark One does nothing for free. What’s your price?”

Rumple smirked a little, and began pacing slowly, his back to them.

“The late lamented Sir Maurice had a daughter, did he not?” he asked, fingers tented in front of him, and he sensed the three idiots exchange a glance.

“The Lady Belle,” said Gaston suspiciously.  “What of it?”

Rumplestiltskin turned slowly on the balls of his feet, his lips pursed.

“How old would the girl be?” he enquired, and Gaston’s brows lowered a fraction more.

“Eighteen,” he said.

Rumplestiltskin’s eyebrows wanted to twitch at that.   _Eighteen?_  She might be, he supposed.  Keeping the same smirk on his face, he took a step towards the hulk of a man in front of him, leering at him.

“Eighteen,” he said lasciviously.  “And – unspoiled?”

Gaston gritted his teeth.

“The girl is pure,” he acknowledged.  “She had to be kept so, I insisted upon it.  She was my betrothed.”

“Was?”  Rumplestiltskin straightened up, and the man floundered.

“Is, I mean.  Is, of course.”

“Of course…”  Rumple’s tone was dry.  “Then how would it be if I told you I could deal with your little ogre problem...”  He waved a dismissive hand in the general direction of the horde of sleeping ogres. “In return for taking the girl?”

Gaston made a noise, a sound of protest, but bit it back at the hand on his arm.

“Excuse us for a moment, Dark One,” said Renard carefully, and Rumple nodded.

Gaston was scowling as his fellow knights pulled him aside, and Rumple watched, amused.

“This could be exactly what we need,” whispered Cedric thoughtfully.  “We take care of the ogres, and the little problem with the Lady Belle in one fell swoop.”

“We don’t know he’ll kill her,” pointed out Renard, jerking a thumb in Rumple’s direction.  “What if she lives? What then? I vote no. We look for the Lady Belle ourselves, and find something else the imp wants.”

“She won’t live for long,” said Gaston grimly.  “You know what they say of the Dark One. If we let him have her, we need never worry about her again.”

“But we don’t know where she is!” persisted Renard.  “I won’t lie to the Dark One, it’s more than my life’s worth!”

Cedric frowned.  “He has a point, Gaston,” he agreed.  “What do we tell him?”

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that,” interrupted Rumple, making them start.  “I can find the wench, never fear. I do wonder why she’s not here, though.” He sauntered towards them.  “Are you telling me she just decided to go out riding in the midst of a storm?”

The three men looked at one another.

“There – was a disagreement over what was best for her,” admitted Gaston.

“Ah!”  Rumplestiltskin nodded slowly.  “What was _best_ for her.  I understand.  My guess is you killed her father and wanted her dead so that there would be no one to block your coup, would I be right?”

“That’s not your concern,” said Renard coldly, and Rumple tutted.

“So I _am_ right.”  He shook his head.  “Politics! Makes me happy that I don’t bother with such tiresome sport in my lands.  I simply kill whomever displeases me.” He waved a dismissive hand at their stricken expressions.  “Now, are you going to give me the girl or not?”

“What do you want of her?” demanded Gaston, and the imp smiled nastily.

“You would faint if I told you of the many nefarious uses for virgin’s blood,” he said with relish, and was gratified to see the man swallow and step back.

“Why her, if I may ask?” asked Sir Cedric.  “I could find you a wench in the village, if I got one young enough.”

“No doubt,” said Rumplestiltskin dryly.  “But I am a connoisseur of precious things, and I’ve never had a noblewoman in my collection.  I’m – very fond – of the toys I collect. Even if I break one of them from time to time, I still like to play with them a little first.”

He grinned his most evil grin, and the men shrank back a little, before sharing their own satisfied smiles.  Gaston nodded.

“I believe we have a deal,” he said, in his deep voice.  “Do as you will with her.”

Rumplestiltskin eyed him curiously.

“You will not miss your betrothed, Sir Knight?” he asked, and Gaston pulled a face.

“She’s a pretty wench, to be sure,” he acknowledged.  “But there are women enough in the world. If Belle’s sacrifice saves our people, I am content.”

“How very generous of you.”  Gaston missed the dry tone, and Rumplestiltskin shrugged.  “Very well, I believe my work here is done.”

“The ogres?” asked Cedric.

“Yes, yes,”  He waved a bored hand.  “No longer a threat. You can all go back to whatever it was you were doing before you were failing to kill them.”

The knights scowled at him, and he let out a high-pitched giggle before disappearing in a cloud of red smoke.


	12. 11: "Why did you scream like that?"

Rumplestiltskin spent a busy night fulfilling the remaining part of his deal with Belle, namely the protection of the villagers.  It required a piece of magic which was time-consuming rather than complicated, in that he had to travel to each village and cast a protective net of magic over them.  Doing so meant that every inhabitant, currently asleep in their beds, would have his protection from Sir Gaston and his knights. The magic, once released, was reasonably self-sufficient and could deal with most minor threats; he would only be summoned if there was anything more serious that needed his personal attention.

Watching the last net of red lace spread over the village and disappear into the air, he gave a satisfied nod, and transported himself back to the Dark Castle.  It was as silent as ever, the only sound the low crackle of the fire in the great hall. But it _felt_ different, and it took him a moment to realise what the change in sensation was.  It was no longer empty. The knowledge that Belle was there, sleeping in the room he had given her, made his skin tingle strangely.  It was an odd feeling, and not one that he was sure he liked. Still, the deal was struck, and he had fulfilled his part of it, so it was her turn.  Quite why he had asked her to serve his tea for four years rather than just hand over her first born or something, he wasn’t sure. Not that he thought she would have agreed to that anyway.  Some women would make that deal, a few without blinking. Not Belle, he thought. If she had a child she would fight tooth and nail to keep it.

 _Why the hell am I thinking about her having a child?  Hardly conducive to cleaning this place!_  He _tsked_ in irritation at himself, and took himself off to his tower workroom.  A night of potion brewing would stop his mind from wandering to the bedroom next to his, and the puzzle of his new maid.

* * *

Belle had tried to stay awake until Rumplestiltskin returned, but her illness had left her fatigued, and she reasoned that as she would need her strength to clean the following day, sleep would be welcome.  She stripped off her clothing, pulling back the blankets of the bed and finding a silk nightdress there, neatly folded. It was soft and warm against her skin, and she slipped beneath the covers, blowing out the candle on the nightstand.  Her eyes slid closed, but she was awake for some time, wondering if he had returned from her father’s castle. Dreading what he might have found there.

The fire burned down to embers as she lay in the dark, chewing her lip.  Eventually she decided that she couldn’t stand it any longer, and threw back the covers.  The candle on her bedside and the lamps on the walls flared to life, and she ran a hand through her curls, glancing around the room.  Almost immediately she found a silk robe draped over the back of a chair, and a pair of slippers below it. She hurried to put them on, looking around again, as though she would see whatever benevolent spirit haunted the castle.

“Thank you,” she said aloud.  “I - I need to see Rumplestiltskin.  Would you please take me to him?”

The lamps in the room immediately snuffed out, all but the one nearest the door, and Belle tugged the belt of her robe tight and set off, pulling open the door and seeing that the lit lamps stretched off down the corridor.  She followed the string of lights, lamps extinguishing behind her and flaring to life in front, leading her along a wide corridor and through a gallery to a set of stairs. They twisted upwards in a spiral, and she hesitated only a moment before putting a hand on the rail and making her way up.

She came to a heavy wooden door, open a crack to give a glimpse of the room beyond.  Belle slipped through the door, glancing around with interest and noting that the atmosphere in the room was strangely heavy, her skin tingling with it.  The residue of the Dark One’s magic, perhaps. Rumplestiltskin was not in the room, but she suspected he had been there not long ago. It was as though she could smell his presence in the air.  A fire burned in the grate, lamps giving a warm light. Bookshelves ringed the circular walls, and she itched to look at the volumes stacked there. A large bench was set with crystal vials and intricate brass apparatus, in which several different coloured liquids were bubbling or smoking or dripping from tiny tubes into smaller containers.  Belle crept closer, fascinated. One of the crystal vials held a potion that was a sparkling cornflower blue, bubbles jumping and dancing across its surface. It was so pretty that she wanted to touch it, and she reached out almost without thinking.

“ _Never_ touch anything in here!”

Rumplestiltskin’s furious voice and his hand on her arm made her shriek in alarm, and she pulled back, shuffling away from him and wrenching free of his tight grip.  He was glaring at her, eyebrows drawn down.

“Why did you scream like that?” he snapped.  “You do realise that some spells are sensitive to noise?”

“Because you frightened me!” she retorted.  “And no, no I didn’t! Why would I?”

“Well, they _are_!” he said, looking irritated.  “If you had the sense you were born with, you’d know not to touch anything you don’t understand.  Some of these potions can be volatile, and you’re of no use to me if you turn yourself into a toad through your own ignorance.”

She wanted to reply with a sarcastic comment, but snapped her mouth shut.  He was right, after all; magic was something she knew precious little about and had no affinity for.  She could have been injured or worse.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I was just interested, that’s all.  I’ve never seen much magic, and everything here is so - well, it’s fascinating.  I promise I won’t touch anything. Unless you let me, anyway.”

He grunted something, leaning back against the workbench and folding his arms.

“Anyway, what are you doing in my workroom?” he demanded.  “It’s the middle of the bloody night!”

“I wasn’t sure how long it would take you to - to do what you promised to do,” she said, stumbling a little over her words.

He was looking at her, his expression suddenly, terribly sober.

“You should have gone to sleep,” he said, his voice low and warm again.  “You need your rest if you’re to work for me.”

“I tried to go to sleep, I did,” she insisted, “but I couldn’t stop thinking about - about my homeland and what you might have found there, and I know it’s probably bad, but I - I just wanted to know…”

Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip to stop it from trembling.  He was silent for a moment, then he crossed to a cabinet of polished walnut.  A silver tray held several decanters filled with liquid, and he reached inside the cabinet and brought out two brandy glasses with large, round bowls.  He poured a measure of amber liquid into each, and Belle’s heart began to thump in her chest.

“Here,” he said, holding one out to her.  “Drink this.”

He had lost his usual mannerisms, the high voice and flourishes gone completely, and there was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before.  Pity, perhaps?  Belle took the glass from him, the liquid inside sloshing and sending up the heavy scent of brandy to sear the inside of her nose.

“Please, Rumplestiltskin,” she whispered.  “Please, just tell me.”

He tapped long fingers against his glass, his textured skin gleaming in the light as he watched her, and gave the tiniest shrug, as though he knew he would have to reveal what he had found, but took no pleasure in the fact.

“There were three knights in your father’s castle,” he said.  “Gaston, Cedric and Renard.”

Belle’s mouth flattened

“They’re friends,” she said bitterly.  “Greedy bullies who like nothing more than fighting and taking the spoils for themselves.”

“When I got there, they were talking about dividing your father’s lands between them, if the King agreed,” he said carefully, and she inhaled sharply, fixing him with a stare.

“And my father?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“They said he had died in battle.”

Grief squeezed at her heart, stealing her breath, but she nodded rapidly, trying not to cry.  She had expected this, after all. She took a gulp of brandy, relishing the fire as it coursed down her throat, and blinked rapidly to clear the sting of tears that wanted to form.

“So they killed him,” she said bitterly.  “Those cowards!”

“I suspect so, yes.”

She turned away, burying her nose in her brandy glass and breathing in the fumes.  Memories of her father wanted to crowd into her head, but she shoved them away. She could think of him later, when she was alone.

“I could easily kill them, you know,” said Rumplestiltskin, in a very bland tone.  “Rip out their intestines and string them up like puppets, if you like. Make them do a little dance in the Great Hall...”

“I said no more death,” she said wearily.  “It wouldn’t achieve anything.”

“I find that killing my enemies is something of an end in itself.”

Belle was silent, and she heard him sigh.

“As you wish,” he said, in a resigned tone.  “There was some discussion over what to do with you, as well.”

She turned on her toes, a droplet of brandy flying out of the glass to land on her finger.

“Me?”

“They wanted you hunted down and brought back,” he said.  “Or killed. Probably both.”

“Of course,” she said dryly.  “Can’t have someone getting in the way of their plans for my father’s lands, now can we?”

“They’re your lands now,” he said.  “I could get them back for you, you know.”

“Let me guess, for a price?” she said, shooting him a wry look.  “Thank you, Rumplestiltskin, but I have no need of lands for the next four years, isn’t that right?”

“The offer’s still there.”

“I’ll remember it.”

She took another drink of brandy, lifting her hand to her mouth and sucking off the droplet clinging to her finger.  Rumplestiltskin was watching her over the rim of his glass, his eyes dark in the low light from the lamps.

“They won’t be coming for you, Belle,” he said.  “They think you’re dead, or that you soon will be.  You’re safe here.”

She nodded, tugging at her lip with her teeth.

“And the villagers?”

He raised his head a little.

“Protected, as you asked.”

“Good.”  She drank the last of her brandy, the fire burning all the way down to her belly.  “Then you’ve kept your end of the bargain. It’s time for me to keep mine.”

“Tomorrow,” he said.  “I don’t need tea, and the dust isn’t going anywhere.  Get some rest.”

Belle nodded, and set down her glass, tugging the robe around herself and casting him a final glance before she made her way to the door.  She could still feel his eyes on her back.


	13. 45. “Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to rowofstars for inspiring me to write Rumple and the never-ending torture of Belle in tight pants. Which is a saga that will continue in this fic :)

Belle rose early, a little grainy-eyed from lack of sleep, but wanting to make a successful start to her new role as the Dark One’s maid.  She splashed water on her face to wake herself, and looked around as she wondered what to wear.  She really needed to wash the clothes she had brought with her, so perhaps her first duty should be laundry.  After she had made his tea, she supposed.

There was a creak from behind her, and she turned on her toes to see the wardrobe door open an inch.  Curious, she went to open it fully, and found it hung with a selection of outfits.  There were simple dresses that she could take on and off herself, breeches in soft leather, waistcoats and linen shirts.  There were even slippers and knee boots, and she suspected that everything would fit her perfectly.  It was either the castle at work again, or Rumplestiltskin himself.  It was nice that she had a choice over what to wear, and after a moment’s consideration she put on a pair of stockings and a silk chemise.  She followed that with one of the linen shirts, a tight waistcoat in russet leather over the top, and a pair of the breeches.  They were snug, clinging to her hips and thighs, but very comfortable, and would be easier to work in than a dress.  Finally, a pair of boots, laced to the knee.

She glanced in the mirror, turning this way and that.  Perhaps not traditional attire for a maid, but she suspected that he wouldn’t care what she wore as long as she carried out the duties she had agreed to.  She brushed out her hair, tying it up on her head to keep it out of the way, and made her way down to the kitchens.  The castle around her was silent, and she wondered where he was, and what he was doing.  A fire burned in the kitchen hearth, a kettle of water already boiling, and the tea things were set out on the table, so she spooned tea into the pot and poured in the hot water.  Once again there were two cups and saucers on the tray, so she set one on the table before carrying the tray up to the Great Hall.

Rumplestiltskin was spinning, but glanced over as she entered.  He appeared to do a double-take, staring at her with wide eyes, and she blushed a little, hurrying to the table to set down the tea tray.

“Good morning,” she said.  “I - I have your tea.”

“What are you wearing?” he asked, in an oddly strangled voice, and she looked down at herself.

“Well, they were in the wardrobe.”

“I thought I put dresses in there,” he said.  "I presumed that's what noblewomen prefer."

Belle put her hands on her hips.

"Well, it's not as though I'm going to be entertaining, is it?" she asked.  "For the next four years I'm your maid, not Lady Belle."

"You don't lose your nobility just by working for me, you know," he said, with a distasteful twist of his mouth, and she raised her chin.

"More's the pity, hmm?"

"I didn't mean it like that," he said sharply.  "I daresay you couldn't help being born into wealth and power.  I thought the dresses might make the transition to servant a little easier, that's all."

“Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress,”  she said. “This outfit is far more practical if I’m going to be fetching and carrying all day.”

“Yes, but it’s—”  He snapped his mouth shut, and waved a hand.  “No matter. Wear whatever you wish.”

She nodded, and turned her back on him, bending over the table to set out the tea things.  He made an odd, high noise, and she looked over her shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine!” he said impatiently, standing up and flapping a hand at her.  “Just - just set it down and stop bothering me! Did you eat breakfast?”

“No.”

“And what use are you to me if you faint from hunger?” he demanded.  “Go and eat breakfast, you ridiculous girl!”

Belle shot him a flat look, straightening up, and brushed herself off before flouncing from the room.  Really, he was so _rude_ at times!  By the time she had reached the kitchens she had calmed down, and she wasn’t even surprised to see a plate of fresh bread, butter and honey, a piece of cheese, and a bowl of cut fruit waiting beside her teacup.  She rolled her eyes and sat down, pulling the plate towards herself. Breakfast first, then the chores.

* * *

She decided to start with the laundry, as the winter sun was out, which would help to dry everything, although it did occur to her that the sheets might freeze in the cold.  No doubt the castle had some trick of magic to deal with that; it had already set out everything she might need for dusting and cleaning the rooms, after all. Belle carried a bucket with cleaning cloths and a feather duster up to her room to make a start.  She reasoned that she could clean the bedrooms while she was changing the bedclothes, which would then allow her to do the laundry and hang it out to dry before taking Rumplestiltskin his midday tea.

She pulled off the sheets on her bed, bundling them into a pile and leaving them by the door while she tidied the rest of her room.  She had not yet explored the other rooms along the corridor, and wondered if he ever used them. The door next to hers led to a small cupboard storing brooms, mops and clean bed linen.  The door next to that, the room sharing a wall with hers, was Rumplestiltskin’s bedroom.

She hesitated in the doorway, feeling oddly nervous, then pushed open the door slowly and walked in, taking in the mahogany furniture and the ornately-carved bed with hangings of rust-coloured velvet.  The colours in the room were autumnal, the shades she always associated with him; a thick rug patterned in burnt orange, pale green and gold lay atop a polished floor, and the silk coverlet of the bed was the reddish-brown of pine bark, embroidered with gold.  The curtains at the two windows stretching from floor to ceiling were of thick russet velvet brocade, tied back with heavy, intricately-woven gold cords. She noted, with a little amusement, that the room was immaculate, the bed made and everything in its place.

She changed the sheets and pillowcases for fresh, the effort of lifting the thick mattress making her a little breathless, and made a pile of the bedclothes by the door, ready to take downstairs to be washed.  She then turned her attention to the floor and furniture. The mirror of the dresser was covered with a shawl patterned in green and gold, and she glanced at it as she swept the floor, wondering why he covered every mirror.  She finished the sweeping and turned to the fire, finding to her surprise that it had already been cleared and that there was a neat pile of logs and kindling ready for that evening’s blaze. The castle again, she suspected. It made her smile.

As there was no need to build up a fire, she began to dust, polishing the top of the dresser and eyeing the shawl-covered mirror curiously.  Why did he not want her to use mirrors in any room but hers?  She hesitated for a moment, hand outstretched, then told herself she needed to clean the mirror anyway, and pulled the shawl from it in one sweeping gesture.  She gazed for a moment at her own reflection, lifting a clean cloth with which to wipe the mirror’s surface.

“Is there something I can help you with, dearie?”

His voice, though soft, made her jump and gasp, and she suddenly saw him directly behind her in the mirror, his face over her right shoulder.  She was trembling, startled by his sudden appearance, and he put his hands on her waist, steadying her.  He was very, very close, his chest brushing her back, and she felt her breath catch in her throat, rendering her mute.

“I believe,” he whispered, “that I asked you not to use any mirror but those in your rooms.  I was quite – explicit – in my request, was I not?”

His cool breath tickled her ear, making her shiver, and she felt a strange tugging sensation deep within her belly.  She could smell the scent of him in the air, spice and musk and magic, and it was as though a strange force held her there, frozen in place.  His eyes gleamed gold in the reflection as he stared back at her.  Her heart was thumping loudly, her breath quickening as his fingers tightened slightly, and she licked her lips.

“I – I’m sorry,” she stammered.  “I was only cleaning it.”

He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring a little, and she swallowed hard.  His hands left her waist, reaching in front of her to lift the shawl back up over the mirror before returning to their previous position.

“There’s no need for you to clean any of the mirrors in this castle,” he said softly, his voice almost a caress.  “I would – prefer it, if you restricted your cleaning duties to everything but the mirrors in future.”

“I – I understand,” she said nervously.

“Perhaps you could take the laundry downstairs instead,” he suggested quietly, and she nodded hurriedly.

He took his hands from her slowly, and when she turned he was gone.  Breathing deeply, her heart still pounding, Belle took a last, fleeting look at the covered mirror, gathered up the laundry in her arms and almost ran from the room.


	14. 31: "I daren't stay long, I just had to see you"

Belle tried to keep out of Rumplestiltskin’s way, other than taking him his tea at midday.  She didn’t speak when she set it down, a plate of cookies to the side of the cup and saucer.  Her reaction to his closeness in front of the mirror had confused and somewhat alarmed her, and she had decided that she needed time to herself to process it.  For his part, he was acting as though she didn’t exist, responding to her hesitant question about lunch with a mere shake of his head, and she couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or irritated.

When she carried the empty tray down to the kitchens, she was amused to find that the laundry had been scrubbed and wrung out and piled into a basket.  The castle seemed to be intent on saving her the worst of the chores, and she thanked the room aloud, smiling into the emptiness and wishing the castle could answer her.  Someday, she intended to ask Rumplestiltskin how it was that the castle appeared to be sentient. But that day was not today.

Given that it was noon, she cut some bread and cheese for herself, eaten seated at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.  The winter sun was out, and so when she was finished and her dishes washed, she carried the basket of laundry outside, looking around for where she might hang the sheets.  She soon found a grassy area near the scullery with twine strung between wooden posts, and she began lifting out the wet sheets and draping them over the line, puffing a little with the weight.  Wooden pegs were fastened over them to keep them in place, and she filled two lines with the laundry, dusting off her hands and picking up the empty basket when she was done. The day was crisp and cold, and she had a feeling they would not be dry for some time.  Deciding to check on them before sundown, she turned on her heel and sauntered back to the kitchens.

The way back led her into the castle stable yard, and a flicker of movement caught her eye.  Eyes narrowing, she peered down through the courtyard entrance and along the broad path that led to the front gates.  A figure stood there, and she glanced around hurriedly before looking back. The figure was tall and lean, dark-haired and dressed in soft skins, a heavy fur cloak on its shoulders.

“Graham!” she whispered, and dropped the basket, running to the gate.

As she drew closer his features became clear, and a smile broke across his face.

“Lady Belle!” he exclaimed, as she slowed to a halt.  “Thank the gods, you’re alive!”

“You found me!” she said excitedly, and he grinned.

“Told you I could,” he said.  “I daren’t stay long, I just had to see you.  I followed your trail a couple of days ago, but turned back when I got to the road.  Gaston sent me out again.”

Belle’s mouth twisted at the mention of Gaston, but Graham reached behind him, sliding a pannier from his shoulders.

“I found your books, buried next to a tree,” he said.  “Thought you might want them.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as he passed them through the bars of the gate.  “Thank you!”

She set them down, reaching for his hand and squeezing it, and Graham’s expression grew sombre.

“My Lady, there’s something I need to tell you,” he began, and Belle squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

“I - I heard what happened,” she said, not wanting to hear him speak the words.  “To my father, I mean. I know he was murdered.”

“You know?”  Graham looked puzzled.  “How?”

“Look, come inside,” she said, pulling open the gate and letting him step through.  “I can explain everything.”

The wrought-iron gate creaked as she shut it behind him, and Graham looked around.

“What is this place?” he asked.  “I thought it was deserted.”

“It’s kind of a long story,” said Belle.  “You see, I’ve - I’ve made a deal. With the Dark One.”

Graham’s eyes widened, and he shook his head disbelievingly.

“No,” he whispered.  “No, my Lady, you can’t!”

“It’s already done,” she said simply.  “The end of the war, and the safety of our people, in exchange for four years of my service.”

“No!”  Graham grasped at her arm.  “Please, my Lady, come with me!”

The sudden appearance of Rumplestiltskin by her side made Belle squeak in fright.  He was glaring at Graham, one gold-flecked hand raised, the fingers clenching, as though they were squeezing an invisible throat.  Graham choked, clutching at his neck, and some unseen force lifted him into the air, legs kicking behind him as his face turned red.

“You think you can come here and take her from me?” spat Rumplestiltskin, his eyes flashing with rage, his voice a low growl.  “ _No one_ breaks the deals I make, do you understand?”

“Rumplestiltskin, stop!” shouted Belle.

She clapped a hand to her mouth as Graham disappeared, and Rumplestiltskin turned to her, a grim look in his eyes, before he waved his hand and vanished in a plume of smoke.

Scared, her heart thumping, Belle looked around wildly before snatching up the bag of books Graham had brought and running back to the castle.  She dropped the bag by one of the chairs in the kitchen, racing up the stairs to burst into the Great Hall. Rumplestiltskin was not there, and nor was Graham, and she bounced on her toes, panic making her brain grow blank.  Where would he have taken Graham?

“Please!” she said aloud.  “He’s taken my friend, I need to find them!”

A candle in its lampshade near the door guttered, and Belle’s head whipped around.  She sprinted for the door, following a trail of lamps as their lights flickered. They took her down a set of stone steps that she hadn’t used before, spiralling down into the depths of the castle, and she suspected she was headed for the dungeons.  A harsh cry of pain echoed around the stairwell, and she quickened her pace, her heart thudding loudly. The cry became a scream, and Belle almost fell down the few remaining steps, hand out to grasp the rough stone wall as she turned into the dungeons.

A gruesome sight met her eyes.  Graham was hanging by his wrists from an iron ring in the ceiling, shirtless, blood running down from a shallow wound in his chest, and Rumplestiltskin was tossing a long-bladed knife from hand to hand.

“Perhaps I can do you in one long strip,” he said, with relish.  “Weave something from your skin and send it back to that idiot knight who sent you, hmm?”

“No!”

She darted forward, getting in between him and Graham and throwing her arms wide, and Rumplestiltskin’s mouth flattened.

“Let him go!” she demanded.  “He’s done nothing to you, or to me!”

“Oh, really?”  Rumplestiltskin’s voice was snide.  “Well, you really are ready to believe the best in everyone, aren’t you?  Of course, you weren’t there when I heard that young lordling Gaston order him to find you and drag you back!”

“Graham’s the one that helped me escape in the first place!” snapped Belle.  “If it wasn’t for him I’d probably be dead!”

Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth for what looked like an angry retort, but then snapped it shut.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” he said impatiently, and waved a hand.

The rope binding Graham’s wrists disappeared, and he collapsed onto Belle with a groan.  She tried to keep her balance, but his weight was too much, and they both toppled to the stone floor.

“Sorry!” gasped Graham, and then his weight was suddenly gone.

Belle rolled onto her back, breathing hard.  Graham was slouching against the opposite wall, panting, and she gazed in surprise as the wound on his chest closed up, the blood drying and scattering in flakes, his skin unmarked and whole.  A pile of clothing was thrown at him, and his hands scrabbled to keep hold of it as Rumplestiltskin stepped nearer, bending to look him in the eyes, leather pants stretching over his rear and shining in the dim light from the lamps.

 _“Leave this place,”_ he hissed.

“Not until I know the Lady Belle is safe,” said Graham, his voice trembling only a little.

“Oh!”  Rumplestiltskin straightened up, tapping long fingers against his lips.  “Foolishly brave, this one. You wish to make a deal with the Dark One?”

“Oh, stop it!” snapped Belle, tired of the posturing.  “Graham, I told you, I’m fine! Please, just get out of here!”

“I’m not going anywhere, my Lady,” he said firmly.  “I vowed to serve your father, and now he’s dead my service passes to you.  I won’t serve Sir Gaston.  I can’t, not after what he did!”

“I’m perfectly safe here!” Belle protested, but Rumplestiltskin had straightened up, mouth twisted a little.

“You would leave your homeland, your people, to ensure her safety?” he asked.

“He’s not making a deal with you,” said Belle, in a flat voice, but he flapped a hand at her, and she folded her arms, sighing in irritation.

“I’ve known Lady Belle since we were children,” said Graham, his gaze pleading, sincere.  “I swore from the time I could shoot a bow that I would let no harm come to her.”

“Good,” said Rumplestiltskin, with a sniff.  “Then you can stay. In exchange for food and whatever shelter you desire.  As long as it’s outside these walls. You stink of dogs. Or is it - wolves?”

He grinned, showing discoloured teeth, and Graham met his eyes, expressionless.

“You’ll grant me food and shelter if I protect the Lady Belle?”

“Will both of you stop talking about me as though I’m not in the room?” snapped Belle, fists on hips.  Both men ignored her.

“You’re offering me a place to stay?” asked Graham suspiciously.

“In exchange for your undoubtedly impressive skills,” said Rumplestiltskin, twirling his fingers.  “I take it you can hunt? If I have two more mouths to feed, I’m going to need game.”

“I can hunt,” said Graham coolly.

“I don’t need protection!” insisted Belle, and threw up her hands as the two men looked each other over.

“What say you, Huntsman?” asked Rumplestiltskin, and Graham nodded.

“I agree,” he said, and Belle hissed in vexation.

“Good,” said Rumplestiltskin.  “To the stable block with you.”

He flicked his fingers, and Graham disappeared, making Belle squeak.  She rounded on Rumplestiltskin, mouth open.

“Well, I’m looking forward to that first haunch of venison,” he said, with a grin, and disappeared before she could speak.


	15. 49: "What's in that bag and why are you hiding it here?"

Belle marched back to the kitchens, irritation lending her speed, dark curls tossing.  Bloody irritating men!  She huffed as she filled the tea kettle and set it over the fire to boil, planning to make enough so that she could take some to Graham as well as to Rumplestiltskin, who stalked into the kitchen as she was setting out the cups.

“It’s early for tea,” he said.

“Does that mean you don’t want any?”

He was silent, and she rolled her eyes as she turned to him.

“I’m going to take some to Graham, too,” she said, and his lip curled.

“I suppose you wish to plead for a room in the castle for him?” he said snidely.  “Perhaps silk sheets and gold bath fittings?”

“Oh, he’ll be far happier in the stables,” she said airily.  “He never could bear to be indoors for long.”

He grunted something at that, and she put her hands on her hips.

“I suppose you’re interested in how he managed to track me through the snow,” she said.  “He really is an excellent hunter, you know.”

“Like a wolf, no doubt,” he said, with a secret little grin.  “Actually, I’m more interested in how he came to be inside the castle grounds.  Usually that doesn’t happen unless the person is desperate enough to make a deal, and that didn’t occur to him until I offered it.”

“Is - is that how I got in?” she asked, and he frowned a little.

“Yes.”

She had the feeling he wasn’t telling her the whole truth, but let it go.

“Well, I didn’t intend to make a deal, either,” she pointed out.  “I had no idea this was your castle, did I?”

“Your situation was different,” he said.

“How?”

“It just was!” he snapped, and she folded her arms.

“Well, you don’t have to wonder how he got in, anyway,” she said.  “I let him in.”

His eyes widened.

“You?” he said incredulously.  “But - that’s not possible!”

“Why not?”

Rumplestiltskin opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, seemingly lost for words.  He was staring at her, and if she hadn’t thought it ridiculous, she would have said he looked almost afraid.  He seemed to snap out of it, waving an impatient hand at her.

“Well, never mind that!” he snapped, and pointed with a long finger at where the leather pannier sat behind her.  “What’s in that bag, and why are you hiding it here?”

“I’m not _hiding_ anything,” said Belle tartly.  “Those are my books. I had to leave them behind when I carried on walking on foot, and Graham found them and brought them to me.”

“Hmm.”  He leaned back a little, fingers twisting in the air.  “Books, is it? I trust you don’t think you can spend your time lying around and reading when you should be cleaning?”

She raised her chin, trying to look down her nose at him.

“I’m keeping my side of the bargain,” she said coolly.  “If you have any reason to criticise the work I do, go ahead, but otherwise I presume that once my chores are done, my time is my own?”

“You seem to be unaware of quite how much work it takes to keep this castle clean.”

“I know that the castle itself has been helping me out since I got here, so I’ll take my chances,” she said flatly, and he stared at her again.

An odd silence fell, and he opened and closed his hands, eyes flicking over her and around the room.  She wondered what he was thinking.

“Oh, very well!” he said eventually.  “You may read as much as you choose after you’re done for the day.  Which is _after_ dinner, not before!”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice stiff.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to polish the table in the Great Hall.”

She stalked off, snatching up the bucket of polish and rags that had magically appeared by the door and leaving him standing and staring after her.

Rumplestiltskin watched her go, aghast that his own maid could speak to the Dark One like that in his own castle.  And as for the castle itself… He paced back and forth, thinking. The magic of the castle meant that the gates could only be opened by the owner, namely him, or by the castle itself, if the visitor wanted to make a deal and he would be inclined to agree.  Perhaps Belle was right. Perhaps that was the reason, and she had only _thought_ that she had opened the gate.

He was feeling strange, a tingling sensation rippling over his skin, and he decided to spin to cool his nerves.  Striding to the Great Hall where the largest of his wheels sat, he stopped in the doorway, his breath catching in his throat with a tiny squeak.  Belle was bent over the table, rubbing vigorously with a cloth and a pot of beeswax, her rear displayed to perfection in the snug breeches she wore.  It was wiggling back and forth, small, firm buttocks that he knew would feel perfect in his hands, and he swallowed hard, his heart thumping in his chest as he turned away and headed for his tower workroom, trying to ignore the long-forgotten stirrings of desire.

“She needs to start wearing bloody dresses!” he muttered to himself.


	16. 33: "The way you flirt is shameful"

Belle tasted the soup that was cooking, stirring the silky, pale orange mixture with a wooden spoon and breathing in the sweet aromas of pumpkin, onions and carrots.  There was no need for her to do so; the castle had everything under control, and her only duties for that evening’s dinner were to carry everything from one side of the kitchen to the other, and stay out of the bloody way.  Or so Rumplestiltskin had informed her.

She had now been living in the Dark Castle for two months, and winter was just starting to turn to spring.  Chores kept her busy for much of the day, but she had noticed that she was having to do less and less around the place, the castle using its own strange magic to wash clothing and dishes and make the dust disappear.  With more free time on her hands, she explored the castle and its grounds, and chatted with Graham when he wasn’t out hunting.

She liked to talk with Rumplestiltskin too, when he was in the mood to be sociable.  Her favourite times were when he returned from deal-making, and she would ask him about his travels, seated cross-legged in the leather armchair nearest his spinning wheel.  He told her tales of mermaids and pirate ships, of lands where winter never ended, and of deserts where the dunes went on as far as the eye could see, a golden ocean of shifting sands.  Belle wished that she could see the places he visited, but she had never asked to accompany him, and he had never offered to take her. She wished that he would.

She took the pan of soup from the stove, using both hands and puffing a little, and poured it into the silver serving tureen.  Rumplestiltskin had informed her that he was entertaining a guest that evening, and her eyes had widened in surprise.  She had not seen anyone since her arrival at the Dark Castle; although she was aware that people occasionally called, he was careful not to let her interact with them.  Even tonight, she had been instructed to put the dishes at the end of the table and they would be transported to the dining hall by magic.  She placed hot rolls on a plate and set it next to the tureen, then stood back. The dishes vanished, but not before Belle clapped her hand to her mouth.   _The serving ladle!_  Panic made her forget the magic in place, and she snatched it up and raced from the kitchen and up the stairs, almost falling through the door to the dining hall.

“I’m sorry, I—” she gasped, and snapped her mouth shut.

Rumplestiltskin was slouching in his usual chair, fingertips tapping together, and to his left was a tall, dark-haired young man in an elaborately-embroidered black frock coat over a purple waistcoat and silk shirt.  A cravat in a muted pattern was tied around his throat, and he was eyeing Belle with undisguised interest.

“Did you want something, dearie?” asked the Dark One, in a bored voice, and Belle pulled her eyes from the stranger at his table.

Rumplestiltskin was dressed from head to toe in black; his jacket was high-collared and looked uncomfortable, most unlike the soft leathers and silk shirts he had taken to wearing in her presence.  She supposed he had a façade to present to those he dealt with, and was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that she should not be there. She brandished the ladle like a weapon.

“You won’t get far without this,” she said lamely, hurrying to the tureen and dropping the ladle into the steaming soup.

“She’s very lovely, Rumple,” said the man.  “I can see why you’d want to hide her away. People always want to steal good servants.”

He smiled as he said it, his eyes gleaming, and Belle blushed, sure he wasn’t referring to her cleaning abilities.

“I believe the mark of a good servant is that you don’t know she’s there,” said Rumplestiltskin, with a thinly-disguised sneer, and Belle’s jaw clenched.  The visitor rolled his eyes.

“You must excuse my friend, Miss..?”

“Belle,” she said, and the man got to his feet, sweeping a bow.

“Jefferson, portal jumper and procurer of hard to find objects.  At your service, Miss Belle.”

“It’s _Lady_ Belle!” snapped Rumplestiltskin, and Jefferson’s eyebrows twitched.

“You have a noblewoman serving you dinner?” he asked.

“She’s supposed to clean the castle as well,” said Rumplestiltskin in a sour tone.  “Not that I see much evidence of it.”

“Rumple!” chided Jefferson.  “How could you let this gorgeous creature lift a finger around this place?”

“She doesn’t seem to be working too hard at the moment."

“Then I’d better get back to the kitchens, hadn’t I?” said Belle tartly.  “There are still three courses to serve and the dishes to wash.”

“She should be dressed in silks and drinking wine with us, not stuck down in the kitchens!” protested Jefferson, and he took Belle’s hand, bending to kiss it.  “My Lady, your beauty fills this room with light.”

“Stop _fondling_ my maid!” snarled Rumplestiltskin.  “She does little enough as it is, without you encouraging her!”

Belle raised her chin.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asked coolly.

“I didn’t ask you to come up here in the first place!” he snapped.  “‘Will that be all’, indeed! Go and bloody well clean something and stop bothering me, would you?”

Belle’s mouth worked as she bit back the retort she wanted to make, and she turned on her heel and stomped off towards the double doors to head back to the kitchens.

The doors slammed after her, and Jefferson sat back down, eyeing Rumplestiltskin with what looked like amusement.

“The way you flirt is shameful.”

Rumplestiltskin blinked rapidly.

“Disciplining a servant is not _flirting_!”

“It is when you both look like you want to fight then fuck,” said Jefferson blandly, and Rumplestiltskin squeaked in outrage, bouncing out of his chair.

“I - I—” he spluttered.  “I have _never_ heard anything so blatantly ridiculous in three centuries!”

“Relax, Rumple.”  Jefferson’s voice was lazy.  “Just saying you like her. And she seems to like you.”

“You always were a poor judge of character,” snapped Rumplestiltskin, pacing back and forth.  “She’s my maid!  It would be the height of bad taste for me to even _think_ of touching her.   _Which I’m not!_ ”

“Of course you’re not.”  Jefferson sounded wholly unconvinced.  “And you can stop with the righteous indignation, I’m sure you wouldn’t take advantage of the girl.  However much she might want you to.”

“Did you suffer a blow to the head?” demanded Rumplestiltskin.  “Because if not I would be more than happy to administer one!”

“Fine!” sighed Jefferson, stretching in his seat and reaching for his wine.  “Forget I said anything.  Just know that I made a bet on how things are gonna go between you two, and if I win, you owe me.  Agreed?”

“Without knowing the terms?” said Rumplestiltskin sourly.  “I think not.”

Jefferson chuckled, winking at him.

“Oh, believe me Rumple, if I win, you win too.”

* * *

Belle had stormed back to the kitchen, arms pumping as she marched along the corridor, huffing a tendril of hair out of her eyes.  The _nerve_ of the man!  She had forgotten how rude he could be.  She paced up and down, waiting for the soup tureen to appear at the end of the table, signifying that the next course (baked fish with buttered spinach and peas) should be sent up.  By the time she was readying the third course, she had calmed down, but irritation still made her restless, and she even washed the dishes without waiting for the castle to do it.

It was over three hours later that Rumplestiltskin came down, the sound of his boots on the stone steps making her mouth thin as she wrung out a cloth to clean the kitchen table.  She supposed he would want tea, but it was odd that he hadn’t simply appeared, given his order and _poofed_ away again.  

“I haven’t seen you for a while,” he said quietly, and she snorted, wiping the table vigorously.

“I’ve been learning to be a good servant, my Lord,” she said coolly.  “Seen and not heard, isn’t that right? Or better still, not even seen at all.  You didn’t see me, so I’ve clearly been doing my job correctly.”

He was silent for a moment, and she finished the table and straightened up, moving past him.  He clutched her arm, making her gasp as she brushed against him.

“I’m trying to keep you safe, Belle,” he said, his voice almost gentle.  “Jefferson is a friend, but he likes to talk when he drinks, and you never can tell who might be listening.  There are those that would hurt you if they could, just for being my – for being here, with me.”

She met his eyes, large and anxious, and raised her chin.

“Well, it’s not as though I ever leave this place, is it?” she asked.  “Who could possibly hurt me?”

“I’d prefer not to tempt fate,” he said dryly, and she pulled free, rubbing her arm.

“Why do you even care?”

“We had a deal,” he said, moving away from her, his fingers twisting a little in the air.  “And I always honour my agreements.”

"Yes," she said, after a pause.  "And I honour mine.  I can't help it if the castle gets to the dirty dishes before I have a chance to."

"I know."  He was silent for a moment, his fingers still moving in the air.  "Would you come to my tower?"

"What for?"

"You said I could borrow your necklace," he said.  "I'd like to borrow it tonight, if you have no objection."

Belle felt curiosity surge within her, and she nodded.

"Alright."


	17. 42: “Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is no!”

Belle followed Rumplestiltskin through the corridors of the castle, mounting the stairs that led to his tower and letting the stone spiral take her ever higher.  His workroom was the same as ever; the only thing that seemed to change was the colour of the potions brewing and the size of the pile of spun gold next to the spinning wheel.  Rumplestiltskin crossed to the workbench, bending to sniff at a bright blue potion before nodding in approval.

“Just about ready,” he said in satisfaction, and clicked his fingers at her.  “The necklace.”

Sending him a wry look that he didn’t see, Belle reached around the back of her neck and unfastened the clasp of the necklace, drawing the purple crystal out from between her breasts and letting it dangle on the fine gold chain as she handed it to him.  Rumplestiltskin took it, eyeing her briefly.

“If you’re staying, go and sit down and don’t bother me,” he said dismissively.

She shot him another look before stomping over to a chaise upholstered in red velvet and sitting down with her legs crossed.  Secretly, she was delighted.  He had never let her stay long in his workroom before, and she was going to see him use magic!  Magic that came from the potions he brewed, not simply the wave of his hand and the powers of the Dark One.  She wondered how easy it was to learn to use magic.  It must be possible to learn to use it, after all; he was the only Dark One, but there were plenty of witches and sorcerers of varying levels of skill in the Enchanted Forest.  Perhaps some had innate ability, but surely some had gotten all their knowledge from books, and had once been as clueless as she.  She wondered which spells would be the easiest, and whether there was a set pattern in which one learned to develop one’s proficiency.

“Stop _thinking_ so hard!” snapped Rumplestiltskin, making her jump.  “It’s very distracting!”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him how he knew she was thinking hard, but he was holding the necklace above a bronze bowl into which the blue potion had been poured, and she switched her attention to the crystal hanging above it.  The purple teardrop had begun swinging in a circular motion, moving in a rhythmic, counter-clockwise arc.  Its pace increased, until it was a blur of colour and light, and she sat forward, lips parted.

“Well, that’s interesting,” he said to himself.

“What is?” she asked eagerly, and he looked up with a frown, making her bite her lip.

“A very strong protection spell,” he mused.  “But protection against what, that’s the question.”

She was itching to ask him something else, and he seemed to be thinking hard, fingers drumming against the bench as his other hand held the spinning necklace.  All at once he appeared to come to a decision, shrugged, and dropped it into the bronze bowl.  There was a loud bang, and Belle squeaked, covering her head with her arms as potion exploded outwards, splattering thick blue fluid all over the room.  When she lowered her arms, Rumplestiltskin was leaning on the bench with both hands, potion dripping from his hair, and the bronze bowl in pieces in front of him.  The necklace lay still, a faint glow coming from it, and he was frowning at it.

“Well, that didn’t bloody work,” he said sourly, and she got to her feet, scratching at her wrist where a blob of potion had landed on her.

“Are you going to try something else?” she asked, and he looked up.

“A different potion,” he agreed.  “It’ll take time to brew.  Here, take this back before it destroys any more of my things.”

He held up the necklace, and she hurried over, holding out a hand to take it.  Rumplestiltskin frowned at her.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at her arm with a long finger.

Belle looked down, eyes widening as she saw a large, red mark on the back of her wrist.  It looked like a burn, blisters already forming, and her mouth opened in shock as the pain started, a stinging agony.

“What did you touch?” he snapped, his eyes flashing, and she shook her head.

“I didn’t, I swear it!” she insisted.  “Some of the potion landed on me, that’s all!”

He blinked at her, eyes wide and curious, and his face seemed to sag a little.  Swallowing, he set the necklace down on the bench and took a step back from her.

“Put that on,” he said.

Belle obeyed, fastening the clasp around her neck and slipping the necklace down between her breasts.  His eyes flicked from hers and back to her wrist, and Belle held it up.

“Would you - would you heal this?” she asked.  “It’s actually very painful, and if you want me to work it would be easier if I wasn’t blistered.  If - if there’s a price to pay...”

“There’s always a price!” he snapped.  “Always.”

He was still glancing at her wrist, his fingers twitching in the air, and she wondered what had made him so angry.  It was almost as though he was afraid.  His mouth thinned, and he waved a hand, a plume of smoke enveloping her wrist.  The pain disappeared immediately, but heat flooded through her: heat that made her catch her breath, her cheeks flushing and a strange throbbing low down in her belly.  She licked her lips, her blush rising, and when the smoke cleared she looked down to see pale, unbroken skin.  She flexed her fingers, smiling in relief, and Rumplestiltskin’s eyes were sober when she glanced up at him.

“Thank you,” she said.  “What’s the price?”

He was silent for a moment, but then flicked a hand at her.

“Go away and stop getting under my feet!” he said shortly.  “I can’t work if I have to worry about you getting yourself killed because you couldn’t leave things alone when I asked!”

He turned his back, busying himself with some of the potion apparatus, and Belle rolled her eyes, not bothering to tell him she had just been sitting there minding her own business.  He already knew that.

“Rumple…” she began, and his shoulders stiffened.

“Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is no!” he snapped, and Belle folded her arms.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked, and he stilled, keeping his back to her.

“Yes,” he muttered, after a pause, and she smirked to herself.

“Then I’ll bring it up when it’s done,” she said.

He didn’t answer, and she sighed, heading for the stairs, one hand clutching the necklace that hung in her cleavage.  She wondered what it was that he had discovered about it, and why that knowledge might scare him.  She wondered if he would ever tell her.


	18. 44: "How dare you look down your nose at me like that!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by @rumple-belle
> 
> Last time, Rumple allowed Belle to sit in while he used a potion to investigate the powers of her necklace, and she was injured in the process when some of the potion landed on her. Here's what happened next

Rumplestiltskin heard her leave, the door closing behind her, and once he was sure she was gone he leaned on the bench with a sigh, letting his head drop.   _So.  It protects her from dark magic.  From_ my _magic.  What is it about her that means my magic can hurt her if she doesn’t wear that wretched pendant?_

He began pacing, hands clasped behind his back, striding back and forth across the floor, his boot heels ringing on the dark wood as he thought hard.  There was something about the girl. Something he had found fascinating almost from the first, drawing him to her. Something beyond her beauty and strength and her bravery.  Was she cursed, perhaps?  A protection spell that powerful could have been crafted to hold off the effects of a curse, and anything that dark would certainly appeal to him.  Yes.  Perhaps it wasn’t the crystal he needed to concern himself with.  Perhaps it was her.  And yet, there was something about the crystal.  It _called_ to him, almost begging him to touch it.  Two puzzles to solve, it seemed.

He frowned to himself, striding over to his spinning wheel.  Spinning helped him to think, to order his thoughts and calm himself.  To give himself some peace from the whirling maelstrom of his own thoughts and fears and the fleeting visions of the future.  He put his hand on the wheel, feeling the familiar smooth wood beneath his fingers.  His magic was dark, it was true, but it had never caused anyone physical pain before.  Well, except when he wanted it to, of course.  His mouth flattened as he thought over the deal he had made with Belle.  She still had almost four years of service.  Four years in which he could hurt her at any time, completely unintentionally.

He drummed his fingers slowly on the wheel, nails tapping against it.  If she was indeed cursed, then he needed to find out the extent of it.  It was either that or send her away, and he wasn’t about to break their deal.  She had asked him for protection, and he intended to deliver.

A crash from behind him almost made him climb into the air, and he let a fireball flare into life in the palm of his hand as he turned with a snarl.  Belle was looking at him a little sheepishly, holding the tea tray. There was a broken plate on the floor at her feet, crescent-shaped almond biscuits scattered around it, their powdered-sugar coating like a dusting of snow on the polished floor.

“I’m - I’m sorry—” she began.

“ _Must_ you always be so bloody _clumsy_?” he snapped, shaking his hand and letting the fireball disappear with a faint hiss.  “You’re lucky I didn’t bloody well immolate you before I turned around!  Creeping up like that when I’m thinking!  Throwing my good porcelain all over the floor!”

“I said I was sorry!”

“If you had the sense you were born with you’d stay out of my tower altogether!” he said curtly.  “Have you any idea how many things there are in here that could hurt you?”

“You told me you’d protect me,” she said obstinately.  “And no, I have no idea what’s dangerous in here. You know why?  Because you tell me _nothing_!  Maybe if you shared a little of your knowledge and experience I wouldn’t be in so much danger!”

“I didn’t deal for you to be my bloody apprentice!” he snapped.  “You’re nothing but an insolent, headstrong disaster in - in a pair of breeches that are far too tight to be good for anyone!”

“What the hell do my _breeches_ have to do with anything?” she demanded.  “They’re comfortable! It’s not as though _you_ don’t wear tight leather pants, now is it?”

Rumplestiltskin blinked rapidly.

“Leave my pants out of this!” he said indignantly.  “And while you’re at it, perhaps it would be best if you stay out of this workroom altogether!  I can’t keep an eye on you every hour of every day!”

Belle squared her jaw, stomping forwards to set the tray on the bench.  Pieces of porcelain crunched beneath her shoes, and she turned on her toes to face him, rising up to her full height.  It was a rather distracting sight in her chosen outfit, and he wondered when her shirts had started to show so much of the creamy skin of her chest and the hollow between her breasts.  He quickly focused on her eyes. She had raised her chin, somehow managing to look down on him despite being a little shorter.  There were spots of colour in her cheeks, her eyes flashing blue as she glared at him, and it made his heart thump.

“I come to the tower because most of the time you don’t remember to _eat_ unless I’m around to tell you!” she said hotly.  “If you had things your way, you’d stay up here all the time spinning and - and _brooding_!  I made you tea and brought you biscuits and carried it all the way up here and I don’t even know why I bother half the time!”

“How dare you look down your nose at me like that!” he snapped, and Belle folded her arms beneath her breasts, letting one hip swing out.

“I agreed to clean this place and make tea for four years,” she said stiffly.  “There was nothing in the contract about not looking down my nose at you when you do something that deserves it!”

Rumplestiltskin swelled with outrage.

“The Dark One does not tolerate this kind of insubordination!” he said nastily.  “I may have agreed to provide you with protection, but if you think that means you can be as insolent as you choose, you’re in for a shock!”

"What are you going to do, spank me?"

His eyes widened, an unexpected and highly inappropriate image pushing into his mind, and he took a step back, fingers twisting awkwardly in the air.

"Of course not!" he said, wishing his voice hadn't suddenly gone up a couple of octaves.  "I promised to keep you safe, I'm hardly likely to dole out physical punishment!"

“I’m well aware of that,” she said coldly.  “And I meant what I said.  If you taught me a little about the dangers of magic, I’d be better able to keep _myself_ safe, wouldn’t I?”

Rumplestiltskin curled his lip.

“Teach _you_?” he sneered.  “The girl who can’t even carry a tea tray without dropping something?  I’d be lucky if any potion you made didn’t blow your bloody clothes off!”

His mouth snapped shut as he realised what he’d said, and Belle glowered at him, a flush blooming high on her cheeks.

“I’ll clean up the mess,” she said curtly.  “Enjoy your tea, Rumplestiltskin.”

She flounced from the room, her rear end twitching as she walked, irritation coming off her in crackling waves, and he stared after her, aware that he found her fascinating, and furious with himself because of it.

* * *

Belle made her way back down to the kitchens, inwardly seething.  She snatched up a dustpan and brush, cursing under her breath as she realised she was going to have to make the climb to his tower workroom once more.  There was another plate of almond biscuits on the table, but she ignored them. If he wanted biscuits, he could get them himself. Besides, he had only asked for tea.  The fact that she always took him something sweet to eat with it was beside the point.

Irritation made her swift, and she was a little breathless when she reached his workroom.  Rumplestiltskin was hunched over his potion table with his back to her, and so she didn’t bother with announcing her presence.  Looking at the floor, however, she could see no evidence of the breakage. The wooden boards were spotless and shining, and she frowned.

“I cleaned it up,” he said, a little sulkily, and Belle put her fists on her hips.

“Well, you could have told me,” she said, in exasperation.  “Or do you just like seeing me run up and down the stairs for no reason?”

Rumplestiltskin stiffened a little at that, but then straightened up, turning slowly to face her.  The anger and indignation had gone from him, and his large eyes flicked over her before settling at a point just by her left ear.  He clicked his fingers, and the dustpan and brush disappeared from her hand, back to the kitchens, she supposed.

“Come with me,” he said.

Curious, she followed him out of the room, down the stairs and along one of the galleries, into a part of the castle that she hadn’t yet fully explored.  Rumplestiltskin led her to another tower, and opened up the heavy wooden door to reveal a round room with a shining oak floor, high windows with thick green velvet curtains and cushioned couches and chairs before a large fireplace.  Floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books in all sizes and colours, and Belle gasped, pushing inside the room and gazing around in awe.  She rushed forwards, eyes scanning the titles written on the spines in gold and silver and deep black ink.  There were books bound in leather, in dragon hide, in velvet and canvas and simple pieces of board.  There were novels and poetry and collections of plays.  There were thick volumes on history and far-off realms and the legends of long ago.  And there were books on magic, seeming to hum with energy and the promise of adventure.

“If you’re so desperate to learn new things, perhaps you could start in here,” said Rumplestiltskin from behind her, and she turned on her toes to face him with a wide smile.

“Why didn’t you show me this before?” she asked eagerly, and he sniffed.

“You do little enough work as it is,” he said sourly, but without any heat.  "Just promise me you won't read the magical texts unless I'm present.  I have no desire for my maid to be turned into a toad unless I choose to do it myself."

Her grin widened, excitement surging within her at the thought of so many worlds to explore, and without thinking about it she flung herself at him and hugged him tight.  Rumplestiltskin froze, rigid in her arms, and she immediately let go and took a step back, blushing. He was staring at her with wide eyes, looking as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

“Forgive me,” she said.  “I just - I wanted to thank you.  For this.”

He twitched a little, as though he was awaking from a spell, and nodded.

“Just don’t spend so much time in here that you forget about my tea,” he said, and disappeared in a cloud of red smoke.


	19. 32. “Perhaps you’ll take me out one day - or do I have to make an appointment?”

Belle had enjoyed looking over the library, browsing the book titles and making a mental list of those she most wanted to read, and before she knew it, midnight had come and gone.  She went to bed with some reluctance, but the thought of being able to spend her evenings in the library filled her with joy, and a growing fondness for her strange master.

She woke later than usual, but not so late that she would have to rush to prepare Rumplestiltskin’s breakfast, and after washing her face and tying up her hair, she strode to the wardrobe.

“Rumplestiltskin says my breeches are too tight,” she said aloud.  “Perhaps I should wear a dress today, Castle, what do you think? We wouldn’t want him to get distracted, after all, would we?”

She opened up the wardrobe doors, tilting her head to the side as she looked over the contents.  Her breeches and shirts were still there, but the castle had also hung up several dresses. There were full skirts that ended just above the ankles and tight lace-up bodices in shades of blue, green and yellow.  Sheer linen blouses were folded neatly on one of the shelves, along with fresh underwear and stockings, and small heeled shoes, and Belle nodded approvingly.

“Can’t hurt to have a change of look every now and then,” she said, and selected a blue dress and one of the little blouses, along with a chemise and stockings.

The clothes were beautifully made, and very comfortable, even the shoes.  She tied the ribbon at the waist of the skirt, and laced up the bodice with firm tugs.  It pushed her breasts high, the neckline of the blouse showing their pale curves and the deep shadow of her cleavage, and Belle turned this way and that in front of the mirror, pleased with the outfit.  Now to see if it was as easy to move around in as the breeches she had grown used to wearing.

She trotted down the stairs, enjoying the feel of the skirts swishing around her legs, and headed for the kitchens.  The castle had already set out the breakfast food, and a kettle was boiling on the fire, so Belle spooned tea into the pot and wrapped a cloth around the handle of the kettle to pour on the hot water.  At that moment the back door opened and in walked Graham, his cheeks pink from the cold spring air, a hessian bag slung over his shoulder. He did a double-take when he saw her.

“Were you feeling nostalgic, my Lady?” he asked, looking amused.  “I thought you’d given up on dresses.”

“Rumplestiltskin said my breeches were too tight to be good for me,” she said, and Graham chuckled.

“Did he indeed?” he said, amused, and heaved the bag onto the kitchen table.

Belle peered inside, finding several large joints of venison along with some rabbits and pheasants.

“A good couple of days hunting, then,” she said.  “Perhaps you’ll take me out one day - or do I have to make an appointment?”

She grinned at him cheekily, and he sent her a wry look.

“Yes, if I ever feel like getting eviscerated I’ll just take you out of the castle with me,” he said.  “I have a feeling Rumplestiltskin would take a very dim view of that, my Lady.”

She sighed.

“I suppose,” she grumbled.  “I’ll have to make do with the tales you tell when you return.  Did you see anyone out there?”

Graham shook his head.

“Saw a few tracks along the borders of the forest,” he said.  “Didn’t bother following them. Have there been any visitors?”

“Not that I know of,” she said.  “Rumple hasn’t had anyone here to deal in weeks.”

Graham gave her an appraising look, folding his arms across his chest.

“Rumple?” he said, in a very bland tone.  “Did you give the Dark One a _pet_ name?”

Belle’s mouth fell open, and she felt herself blush a little.

“It’s - uh - quicker to say.”

“Uh-huh.”

Belle’s blush deepened, and she busied herself with the breakfast tray, setting pastries on a plate next to a dish of porridge with fresh berries and honey.

“There’s plenty of porridge in the pot,” she said, nodding at the iron pot keeping warm next to the fire.  “You can help yourself, if you’re hungry.”

Graham shook his head.

“I need sleep, first,” he said.  “I’ll leave you to take breakfast to your - Rumple.”

Belle shot him a look, and he grinned at her, touching his knuckles to his forehead before ducking out of the kitchen.  She carried the breakfast tray up the stairs, the doors to the Great Hall opening in front of her, and saw Rumplestiltskin already sitting in the chair at the end, tapping his fingers together.  He blinked when he saw her.

“You’re wearing a dress,” he said, and she smirked.

“Is that so hard to believe?” she asked.  “I felt like a change, that’s all.”

She went to set out the breakfast things, bending over to put the bowl of porridge in front of him, and Rumplestiltskin made a high sort of squeak at the back of his throat.  Belle raised her head.

“Is something wrong?”

He was staring at her, but at the sound of her voice he twitched irritably, glancing away.

“Nothing, nothing!” he said impatiently.  “Are you going to set that out before the tea gets cold, or not?”

She gave him a very level look, but placed the pastries next to the porridge bowl and set down the teapot.  She clicked her tongue in vexation as she realised that the castle had included a second teacup _again_.  It kept doing that, even when she took it off the tray each time.

“Well, since you’re here, you may as well have some tea,” said Rumplestiltskin ungraciously.  “I daresay I won’t eat _all_ the pastries.”

Belle bit her lip to hide her delight.  He flicked a dismissive hand at her, and so she pulled out a chair, smoothing her skirts as she sat down.  She set the cups in their saucers and moved the tray to the side.

“Let me pour,” she said, and reached for the teapot.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Belle pulled on a thin cloak to keep off the chill air, before hooking a basket over her arm and going out into the gardens.  She wanted to pick some of the fresh herbs for drying, and despite waiting for a sunny day in which to complete the task she had begun to despair that the rain would ever stop.  The skies were leaden and angry as she stepped outside, and the wind was bitter, but it was at least dry, for now. Black clouds promised more rain to come; she would have to hurry.  She made her way between the bushes of sage, thyme, rosemary and juniper that grew in the gardens towards the edge of the forest, snipping off the freshest herbs and berries as she went and humming to herself.  Rain was starting to fall again, and she sighed internally as she heard the distant rumble of thunder.

The crack of a twig ahead of her made her stiffen and she stopped humming at once.  She stood still, listening carefully, then took a silent step forwards to where the sound had come from.  A short, slim figure, its head covered with a thick shawl, leapt up from the undergrowth, startling her, and immediately ran off into the forest.

“Wait!” she called out.  “I won’t hurt you!”

The figure ran on, and Belle dropped the basket, hiked up her skirts and followed, ignoring the rain that soaked her.  She was soon in the thickest part of the woods surrounding the castle; black branches reached out to grab at her clothes like the claws of hungry animals, and she gasped as a twig scratched her cheek painfully.  She lifted her arm to shield her face and failed to spot a root at her feet, her toes catching on it and pitching her face-first into the wet leaf-litter. Belle pushed herself up, breath hissing through her teeth as pain stabbed through her ankle.  She picked a dead leaf from her hair and rubbed at her twisted ankle, looking about her.

The rain was turning to sleet, and she shivered, wondering why she had been so foolish as to come out with just a thin cloak and then chase after a complete stranger.  She drew the cloak around herself, noting ruefully that it was already getting soaked through, and pushed herself to her feet, crying out as she put weight on her ankle.  There would be no more tracking this day; she needed to get home.

Gritting her teeth, Belle held onto the nearest tree, and viewed her surroundings anxiously.  She could not see the castle, but she thought that she had been running south. The leaden clouds did not help her sense of direction, but looking at the lichen on the tree-trunks she found what she believed was north and headed that way, limping badly and holding onto the damp trees for support as she went.

She had been walking for almost half an hour when she finally admitted to herself that she was lost.  Her ankle was badly swollen, the forest was getting no thinner, and it was growing dark. Exhausted from the difficult terrain and the pain in her foot, she sank down by a large oak tree and leaned back against its trunk, wishing that its branches provided a little more shelter from the freezing rain.  She wondered if she had strayed beyond the boundary of the Dark Castle, and felt suddenly vulnerable. She could not think of anyone that would want to hurt her besides Gaston and his men, but they were far away and highly unlikely to come against the Dark One. However, she realised that someone could try to get to Rumplestiltskin through her; he would surely come after her if she was taken, if only to ensure her deal with him was fulfilled.  She knew he would come when she called his name…

 _You need help, you idiot,_ she told herself crossly, and sat up.

“Rumplestiltskin!”

“Well, well, what _have_ you been doing?”

She looked up at him, his face silhouetted against the veil of bare twigs above her, his slender form clad in brown leather and gold silk.  His arms were folded, one finger tapping his elbow in irritation, but she was very glad to see him.

“I fell,” she said lamely, and he bent forward and pulled two or three wet leaves from her hair.

“Not your best look, dearie,” he said, his voice half-amused and half-angry.  She shivered, tugging her wet cloak around her, and he clicked his tongue, holding out his hands to take hers.

“Let’s get you back to the castle.”

He pulled her to her feet and she bit back an oath as her ankle threatened to give way beneath her.

“You’re hurt,” he said, concerned, and she nodded.

“It’s my ankle.  Only a sprain, but it’s painful to walk on.”

He sighed in annoyance.  “Well, in that case…”

He waved his hands theatrically, and Belle was suddenly in the library.  Heat from the fire hit her and she limped towards it, stumbling and almost falling before he caught her around the waist and pulled her upright.

“Throwing yourself into the fire will not help matters,” he said disapprovingly, steering her towards one of the nearby couches.

He pulled off her wet cloak and she sat shivering while he knelt before her, lifting her saturated skirts above her knees, tugging off her shoes and, to her horror, her stockings.

“I can do that myself!” she said indignantly, flushing.  Exhaustion, hunger and pain had made her irritable, and he _tsked_ in annoyance.

“Foolish girl!” he snapped.  “What on earth were you thinking of?  You could catch your death out there! _Again!_   I already nursed you through one bloody fever and to risk another is _highly_ ungrateful!”

“What do _you_ care?”

Belle’s voice was sullen, and he sat back on his heels, gold-flecked skin glistening in the firelight, frowning at her.

“What good are you to me if you die of a fever?” he demanded.  “Do you know how long it’s taken to get you to make my tea the way I like it?”

She glared at him, and he pushed himself to his feet, carrying one of the large painted screens from the other side of the room and placing it before the fire.  

“Here.  You can change behind this.  I’ll get you something dry to wear.”

He disappeared, and Belle began wearily to unfasten the bodice of her dress, limping to stand behind the screen, where she was in front of the fire and shielded from the door.  She was soaked through, her hair plastered to her head and still with pieces of the forest floor clinging to it. She unlaced her skirt, letting skirt and bodice fall to the ground before peeling off her wet blouse and chemise.  The fire was almost too hot on her bare skin, and she turned slowly, drying every inch of herself as her shivering began to fade, the crystal pendant cool against her skin. The scratch from the branch had cut her cheek; blood was crusted on it in a ridged line, and the heat was making it sting.

“Your clothes are there,” he said, from behind her, and she spun in surprise, her face reddening, arms automatically covering herself.

She could see over the top of the screen that he was on the other side of the room, pacing up and down in agitation and throwing the occasional glance in her direction.  She pulled the clean, dry, silk undergarments from where he had draped them and put them on, followed by the green woollen dress, warm and soft, then hung her wet things up to dry before the fire.  The dress was ruined, she could see that, but she thought the blouse and underclothes were salvageable.

She emerged from behind the screen, limping on bare feet, and cleared her throat.  He turned to her immediately, motioning her towards the sofa and wrapping his fur-lined cloak around her before she sat down.  Kneeling in front of her again, he took her swollen ankle in his cool hands, his touch gentle. Belle saw a purple light flowing over her foot and felt a tingling sensation course through it, then the pain disappeared as the light faded, and warmth flooded through her, making her gasp.  The bruising and swelling had gone, her ankle its normal size again. He reached up then to touch her face delicately, making her start, and again she felt a tingling and a rush of warmth as he drew his forefinger across her cheek, healing the scratch. She smiled at him as he sat back and pushed himself up without a word.  Belle pulled her feet up beside her and he tucked them inside the cloak, the fur warm against her cold skin.

“I assumed you wouldn’t be in any fit state to make tea,” he said sternly.  “So here.”

He handed her a large glass of brandy and sat down at the opposite end of the couch with his own, watching her somewhat anxiously.  Belle swallowed a large mouthful of her drink, feeling its fire course through her, warming her from within. She looked at him from beneath her thick lashes as she lowered the glass to her lap.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, and his mouth twitched.

“Good help is hard to find,” he said dryly, and she bit back a smile.

“Nonetheless,” she said, reaching for him.  “You’ve been very kind to me.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling at him, and he looked so startled at her touch that she let it go almost immediately.  She had noticed that he would readily initiate contact himself, with a hand on the small of her back as they walked, or a touch at her shoulder to gain her attention.  Yet, if she were the one to touch him, he seemed always to be shocked by the physical contact, and to recoil from it. It was strange. He was still watching her intently, and she felt a faint blush rise in her cheeks.

“What _were_ you doing out there?” he asked curiously, and Belle sighed.

“There was someone here,” she said.  “Looking at me when I was in the garden picking herbs.  They ran off when I noticed them, so I followed them.”

He frowned.  “Who was it? Man or woman?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.  “Small. A woman, I think, or perhaps a boy.  The face was covered, so I couldn’t tell.”

He stood, beginning to pace again, his fingers tapping against the side of the brandy glass rhythmically.

“I don’t like that people are snooping in my gardens,” he said thoughtfully.  “Perhaps I need to think about some better – security measures.”

Belle let her head fall back against the cushions.  “Rumple, no! Just…leave them alone. I’m sure they meant no harm.”

He spun to face her.

“Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?  Didn’t I promise to keep you safe? And yet you go haring off into the woods after who knows what without a single thought about the trouble it might cause!”

She sighed wearily, and drank more of her brandy.  He was still pacing back and forth, and she slipped from the couch and put a hand on his arm to stop him, taking his hand in hers as he turned to her, and pretending not to notice his flinch.  His shirt was open at the neck, the gold flecks on his skin gleaming in the light of the fire and the candles. She thought how pretty it was, that glittering skin he tried to hide behind like a shield.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said gently, looking up at him imploringly.  “They’re gone, I’m safe, and you don’t need to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he lied stiffly, and she bit her lip to hide her smile.

“Then sit back down with me and finish your drink,” she said gently, and pulled him back to the couch, curling up under the cloak again as he sat down beside her.

She leaned against his shoulder with a sigh as the warmth sank into her bones, and he surreptitiously pulled another leaf and a twig from her hair.  He sat upright and unnaturally stiff as Belle relaxed into him, sipping her drink and watching a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She sighed, leaning into him a little more.

“Sit back,” she yawned.  “I won’t bite you.”

Rumplestiltskin huffed a little at that, but leaned back against the couch cushions.  She was shivering still, and he pulled the cloak a little more snugly around her. Her hair was making his shirt damp, but he allowed her to rest her head against his chest as she sipped at her drink.  Her shivers slowed and finally stopped as she finished her brandy, and he looked down at her.

“It’s getting late,” he ventured, and she yawned again.

“Just a little longer,” she said sleepily, shifting her position slightly.

He sighed, and relaxed back into the cushions.  He rarely slept. It wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes, just for a moment.

* * *

The thud of a brandy glass falling to the rug made his eyes spring open.  The fire had burned down to glowing embers, a warm orange light gleaming against polished wood and making shadows at the edge of the room appear darker than usual.  He felt a strange pressure against his legs, and looked down, almost starting with surprise. Belle was lying down, one pale arm reaching out from the thick fur of the cloak, stretched across his thighs.  Her head was in his lap, her breathing even as she slept soundly. It was a pleasant way to wake up, to be sure, but she was unlikely to find it so when _she_ woke.

He pondered what to do, realising that he was not aware of the protocol for waking from unexpected sleep to find a young lady with her head pressed up against his groin.  Belle chose that moment to move her head a little, rubbing against him, causing him equal parts intense pleasure and mortifying discomfort at his own reaction. He decided that it would be best to get her back to her own bed, and, careful not to wake her, slipped his arms under her back and behind her knees and stood up with her.  She didn’t stir. He could, of course, have sent her to her rooms with a spell, but was enjoying the feel of her in his arms, and wanted to cherish it while he could. He began walking slowly towards the stairs, taking each step carefully, so as not to disturb her, but even with his steady pace she shifted against his chest.

“Where are you taking me?”  

Her voice was a little slurred, drowsy with sleep.

“I’m taking you to bed.”

He could have bitten out his tongue!  He waited for her eyes to widen in panic, for her to struggle in his grip and demand he release her.  Belle let out a long sigh, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder, her breath tickling his ear.

“Good,” she said sleepily, making his heart thump harder.

He managed to reach her room without incident, and drew back the covers before laying her in the bed.  She nestled into the pillows with tiny sounds of enjoyment that were doing awful things to his self-restraint.  Looking down on her, he smiled slightly at her upturned mouth and flushed cheeks. He debated loosening her bodice to make her more comfortable, but decided there was only so much he could cope with in one evening, and settled for brushing her hair back from her face gently and whispering goodnight.

“Rumple,” she murmured, as he turned to go.

“Yes, dearest?”

Now, why had he said _that_?  When had their relationship changed from that of master and servant to – whatever _this_ was?  She smiled sleepily.

“You’re a good man,” she whispered.

If only that were true.


End file.
